


The Heart of Heresy

by cantor



Series: Those Who Serve the Light [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Feels, Fix-It, Gen, Headcanon, Mage Rights, Mage Underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantor/pseuds/cantor
Summary: No punishment can break his spirit, no humiliation can quench his thirst for freedom, no promise or reward will silence him. This is the work about the chain of events that followed Anders's last escape and his life and trials before he meets Hawke.





	1. The Hand that Beckons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is approached by two suspicious individuals. They are not what they seem like. Instead of traitors he imagines them to be, they offer help in establishing a line of communication with his soulmate Karl.

They approached him on a busy day.

It was the first month of an already hot Kirkwall summer – unusually so – and the residents of the Undercity felt it stronger than anyone else. Deaths have swept swiftly and violently across the cloaca, spreading disease and infection wherever they went; it was enveloping those unfortunate souls who had nowhere else to go in a thick, smelling shroud of rapid decomposition. Even though the Blight was over, its grasp was present in places it didn’t reach. It wasn’t quick enough to swallow the Free Marches before it got extinguished, but through its rampage it did deprive many fereldans of their homes. The Undercity — where they congregated — in summer by itself was a dangerous place and far from pleasant, but when they found out he was hiding there, they went anyway.

His name was Anders.

They have heard a lot about him.

He, on the other hand, even knowing full well that his position was fragile at best and that his freedom would not last long had he stalled in one place for too long, never suspected that it wouldn’t be the templars coming to his doorstep. Neither could he imagine that the visitors would turn out to be templars' fiercest enemies.

There was one phrase in his mind, breaching his already neurotic thought process suddenly with a sharp, painful sting, like a heated needle to brittle skin:

WE’RE NOT ALONE.

Spoken in a low, harsh spirit’s voice, chilling and even frightening at first, the feeling evoked by this will follow him relentlessly for many years, in the exact same wording every single time. So simple and yet powerful in and of itself, it will slowly make its way into something akin to unquenchable, defiant pride. It will be his vengeful triumph.

 

It is easy to spot someone who doesn’t belong in the Undercity. Men who came for Anders did not, but it didn’t seem to bother them at all. One of the two, a lanky fellow, the type that mercenary lords are more than happy to recruit just for their sheer intimidating look, stopped next the creaky barn door and looked around. There wasn’t any hint of aggression in his eyes, and his attention was directed on the outside, with a shining spark of natural curiosity. The other one, dressed in a richly-tailored carmine coat, despite seemingly belonging more to Hightown than Darktown, didn’t mind looking like an outsider. He could pass for a lost young nobleman, out of his element, but the trained eye could see that for someone of noble origins he was too estranged, too content with his surroundings. He was the one to approach the target, cautiously but with remarkable confidence.

“Warden Anders?” He extended his hand in a friendly gesture. “It truly is exciting to meet a legend in person.”

Anders was patching up a young girl who was squirming under his hands even though the mage wasn’t even touching or hurting her in any way. He got such reaction often from those who have been brought up in fear of magic. It took time and some convincing for her mother to finally let him even come near her. For many fereldans, their newly refreshed veneration before the title of a Grey Warden often overrode their reservations regarding magical nature of such procedures, and this little trick was what helped Anders win the nervous mother over. Now a simple mention from the stranger stopped the squirming, for which the mage didn’t know whether to be thankful or not. The wound — more like a bite — not a dog’s bite, but human’s — didn’t look well. It was swollen and red, and there were traces of pus inside. Something so minuscule as one might think, a scratch from a child’s play, here, in Darktown, could easily lead to consequences unimaginable for someone who never visited the cloaca. Miasma. Humidity. Filth and squalor. In here, infection thrived and in its reign has claimed limbs and lives uncountable.

He did not ask how she got bit, but it probably happened in a fight over food. He was always focused when he worked, and as his fingers were weaving healing magic with precision, he never as much as flinched when he heard this strange greeting. Internally, however, he winced at this weird approach. Appealing to his pride? As a warden, he wasn’t a dignified figure — far from it, he was openly frowned upon, especially in the last months he had spent with the order. Why, it could only mean that the young man was referring to his years in the circle. For whatever purpose he had chosen this approach, Anders could only guess, but his inner voice told him it was some sort of an intimidation attempt. If they came to take him back to the Circle, they could try, but not before he ensured that his young patient was out of danger’s clutches. He kept silent for a moment, then replied as indifferently as he could, still fixated on pulling the wound tight.

“You must have confused me with someone else. There are no Grey Wardens around here.”

He had a mantle of Grey Warden colors on, with a half-ripped griffon insignia on his shoulder. Anders wasn’t lying about not being a warden, exactly — he had left the order, despite never being officially discharged. But then again, neither was anyone.

“We understand your reservations, but we intend no harm,” said the stranger softly, “in fact, I believe we could be of great help to you.”

Anders nodded to the girl, whose facial expression was a smudge of hesitation and thankfulness. She would live, and that was the only thing that mattered to him. Her mother, worried and scared, took her by the hand and led her away, leaving a small dirty copper piece, probably one of the last she had, in mage’s palm. He did not accept it, and stopped the women to give it back. As she felt the coin's soft touch to her dirty hand, the mother clutched the it tightly, not knowing what to say. Anders gestured for them to go, blinking slowly as if attempting to calm a distrustful cat.

When they left, and no one was left around, he finally spoke again.

“What makes you think I need help?”

The man who was standing next to the door approached the two. Wherever he went, a faint smell of old cheese followed. “You have a friend in Kirkwall Circle, right? He’s a bright and talented mage. It’s a shame that he cannot reach his full potential here. You must be desperate to free him, if you came here all the way from Ferelden, but we feel it necessary to warn you that at the moment such a risky... endeavor is unlikely to succeed.”

HAVE THEY COME TO DECEIVE US? DO NOT LET THEM.

“That is, if you even have a plan,” the other one added. “But I should apologize first and ask you to forgive our manners. It seems we forgot basic politeness and introductory customs. My name is Grant, and this here is Thurston. Please don’t be startled by this… abundance of knowledge about you and your friend on our part.”

“I don’t even want to ask,” Anders said with a faint trail of a smile on his lips as something cringed and thrust violently in his stomach.

DO NOT DEVIATE. WE HAVE OUR OWN PATH.

“Escaping from a Circle seven times? Perform such a feat and it will be talked about in the farthest corners of the world!” Thurston contained his excitement, albeit sloppily. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s casually brought up even all the way north in Anderfels!”

Anders thought of his father. For a mere second, he could swear he heard someone calling out to him in his given name, rough like a whip, in a sharp, commandeering voice. It’s been two decades since he was called that name. He had a new one which he liked better. Anders took a deep breath and this sinking feeling vanished as quickly as it came to him.

“In any case,” Grant continued, “we came to see you because we believe we share a common purpose.”

The former warden almost chuckled, but his cautious curiosity took over. “And what purpose might that be?” he asked, looking them in the eyes, almost with a challenge.

He was intrigued. He had all sorts of ideas. And yet, these people did not cease to frighten him. Anders wanted to be left alone. He didn’t come here to look for new friends. Walking out on them mid-conversation would be rude and probably even dangerous — but not more dangerous if they came to take him to the templars. Seeming rude to people never stopped him before. But… it wouldn’t be the first time the templars used their dirty tricks to put their hands on him, and now there was no Warden-Commander around to drive them away.

Something kept him there. He didn't know what.

The reply was concise but ambiguous. The young man had a certain playfulness in his voice. “Changing the current way of things.”

Anders took off a ring from his finger and started putting it from one palm to the other. He wondered if they would elaborate as his eyebrow slowly rose in anticipation. Justice stirred within him, tugging at his heart. But now, face-to-face with these strange visitors, he could take a closer look.

They were about the same age, but younger than Anders. Dedicated and attentive, full of energy and commitment, they were the shining face of youth. Naive, perhaps, but with pure intentions. There was something in their eyes, like a bright spark. An unquenchable flame, as they say in the Chant. They spoke in a calm, educated manner, even the brute. Anders felt slightly ashamed for assuming that he was brain dead.

Something in them spoke to him on a deeper level, it was calling out to him, even thought he couldn’t fully understand what it was. There was something more, and as they spoke, without even focusing on the substance, Anders saw the link. It was a clear reflection. He was like that too, years ago. The wardens changed everything.

For a second there, he believed them.

Justice didn’t agree and made it clear and painful.

He drifted off, sweat trickling down his back.

“...There are many things that should not be, and those that should, are not. Someone must remind the world we are all Maker’s children, make them see that the Templar Order is an insult to the Maker and his bride, as is the Circle.”

Anders shook his head as he focused on Grant’s speech again. The insufferable vagueness of their words was starting to annoy him.

But still, it was sincere. Seemed sincere. Such belief, on the verge of obsession, cannot be easily faked.

“Isn’t it dangerous to express such ideas openly?” he asked, perplexed, without betraying neither suspicion nor his opinion on the matter. From what he’s seen and heard about Kirkwall, however little, it could mean imprisonment and even death. Anders was never the one to avoid risks, and most people who knew him would surely say he was needlessly reckless sometimes, but suicide was never in his taste.

“Are you joking? Down here?” Thurston grinned widely, clearly amused at the question. “Templars don’t come here, and neither do guardsmen. Too squeamish, I say,” he smirked, as if saying it right to the faces of all of the Kirkwall Guard and even the Knight-Commander herself.

“Investigators do show up here from time to time, however,” his friend added not to mislead the mage into accidentally running into one, “but since the influx started last year, they’ve been avoiding the place as well.”

“If you ask me, it’s just a convenient excuse not to head down here, they have things to occupy their precious spare time with, like torturing and bullying people back at the circle for example.”

Thurston clearly had many more things to say in a colorful manner, but Grant stopped his rambling by simply raising his palm. The second mage got the message quickly, and quickly made a soft step back, in a learned way. It was obvious which one of the two was the leader and which one only aspired to be such. And yet, Anders didn’t see any rivalry or tension of that kind between them.

“It’s pretty safe to assume we’re not going to be disturbed. Otherwise we wouldn’t have approached you so openly.” They looked at each other as if to confirm what they were going to say — something which was, no doubt, rehearsed numerous times. Anders heard a deep breath before Grant began to speak.

“We’re not asking for anything in return, not asking for any commitment from your part. We came because we help all our fellow mages, and we have the means to do something.”

TOUCHING BUT SUSPICIOUS. DON’T LET YOUR GUARD DOWN.

“If you know of my friend...” Anders hesitated before saying his name and swallowed it as his throat got sore and scratchy, “Is he well? Is he all right?”

“Karl is as well as anyone can be in Kirkwall circle,” Grant replied grimly, and although the news was good, it seemed to Anders that he was going to add “my condolences” in the end of his sentence, “they were glad to get their hands on someone of his talent. But he is in good health, if you don’t count his ennui.”

“Not like they’ve used that talents of his. Talented mages here are under a great deal of scrutiny, more so than others, especially ones with his… views.”

“Are you talking about the fraternities? Is it different here, in the Free Marches?” he asked, even though he knew they weren’t talking about the fraternities. Not exactly. Grant’s tone became more serious as he shared more.

“It is. But it’s not about that. Everyone is expected to follow one certain doctrine here. There is no one but loyalists in Kirkwall circle. Officially, at least. Karl’s learned to not express his opinions as openly as he did in Kinloch Hold, and eventually he stopped doing it at all, but the templars have taken note nonetheless. Libertarians are a worse scourge to them than blood mages.”

“If you know so much about how things are in Kirkwall circle, are you...” the former warden stumbled over words, not wanting to use the term ‘apostate’ which he hated with every fibre of his being, “ _have you_ escaped from it, then?”

The response was swift.

“No.”

“Tantervale,” Thurston added after an awkward pause, to be more precise.

“Then why did you come here of all places?”

“The answer’s right there, in your question!” Grant said, “Kirkwall is notorious for how harshly they treat mages here, and if things must change, this is the right, no, the only, place to start.”

“Are there only the two of you?”

They looked somewhat offended, however, it seemed like they half-anticipated the question. “No, there’s more of us. We even have non-mages on our side.”

Thurston was almost ecstatic.

“It’s not like we have a whole army at our disposal, no; we will not lie that our numbers our thin, because it’s true, but for now, it is more than enough to do what we are doing.”

“Speaking of which, our offer still stands.”

He was going to regret it.

“Let’s hear it,” Anders said.

“We have a contact in the circle here, someone who could slip a note to your friend without any danger to either you or him or anyone involved.”

Now it went full conspiratorial. Anders was in.

“Are there any conditions?”

“One, apart from that it will have to be destroyed, which I’m sure you and your friend find obvious. It has to look like an ordinary note, which means no seals,” Grant threw a quick glance at the ring in Anders’s hands, “In theory, mages here can have personal possessions, yes, but there is no such thing as private correspondence. It’s a known fact that all mail that arrives at the Gallows is read and thoroughly inspected by templars. An unbroken seal in a mage’s possession will attract unwanted attention and can spoil everything.”

“It’s a disgusting practice, trying to silence everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if templars there raid their private journals in search for some juicy gossip, too. They claim it’s because they think there’s a possibility of uprising, which, in turn, means that they understand quite well that their conduct isn’t exactly appropriate,” “But if you’re worried about privacy, don’t be. We’re not in a habit of going through someone else’s laundry. We’re better than templars, this we can promise you.”

“And this contact of yours? Is he… she? trustworthy?”

“Wouldn’t offer you anything it any other way. She’s an old friend, and someone who’s made many connections possible. Besides, you only have to worry about your letter being read by someone in the order — and this probably won’t happen. Our friend... She’s illiterate. Whatever you choose to write will be safe with her.”

“If you decide to accept our offer, you’ll get to meet her yourself. It only seems right for us to do so; we wouldn’t have it any other way. Come see us tomorrow. Lowtown market, midday.”

“Cheese vendor,” Thurston said dreamily, “you won’t miss it even if you wanted to. You can hear the vendor wherever you are at the market.”

They turned to the exit, Thurston trailing behind Grant shyly, as if trying to hide behind his back — the back of someone who was almost half his size.

“If you don’t come, we’ll understand,” he said, giving the warden a friendly smile, letting him know by a faint twitch of the corner of the mouth that no offense is taken in any case.

Anders nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

“That is all we ask.”

* * *

 

He slept on the floor of Lirene’s store, with his travel pack for a pillow and his worn mantle for a blanket.

When he came to the Free Marches, he didn’t consider much beyond his arrival, and it was as impulsive as it was brave. It solved both of the problems he had at the time — being a rogue warden on the run and a mage both, then also oath-bound to rescue Karl — but it created many, many more.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford renting a room in some inn — he had some coin, but he felt more secure on his turf, even if it was a small store in Lowtown. He didn’t spend much time in there anyway; he bought humble meals and ate once a day at Lirene’s, slept there, and spent the rest of the day in the Undercity, healing.

Lirene was the only one who truly cared about fereldans. She gave them all jobs she could and paid out of her own pocket even though the produce didn’t bring much money in return. Where she took all that coin to keep going, he had no idea, and never asked. It was enough that there was someone out there rooting for them.

He never thought that he’d have to set up in Kirkwall permanently and prayed it wouldn’t turn out to be so.

It’s been over two weeks and he hadn’t made any progress. Now he had an opportunity to change the situation and it didn’t let him get any sleep.

Not that he had gotten much of it lately anyway.

He got up quickly, startling a refugee who was sleeping next to him, and apologized, as quietly as he could, not to accidentally wake up even more people. Regretfully, he got spoiled and forgot what it was like to sleep in a room full of other people. Wardens, however dire curses it brought upon its own, had their benefits, and for a mage to have a chance to live as a free man without prosecution — it has changed Anders in ways he couldn't possibly hope to comprehend.

In his pack, he carried a small brass inkwell and a quill. He took them and started writing sloppily in his atrocious handwriting. The words he put on the paper were set in stone in his head for the last couple of hours. It was the first time in his life when he was able to compose a letter from his first try so that it conveyed all he wanted to say clearly.

 

 _Karl,_  
  
_I’m not going to waste ink on telling you what it means to me that you’re safe so that you don't hesitate even for a second before destroying this letter._  
_I made a promise and I’m holding onto it. I am coming for you. I am sorry it took so long, but it won’t last much longer, not if I have anything to do with it._  
_You must have some ideas. We can make this work._  
_I am ready for everything,_  
  
_A_

 

As he examined his writing under the dim light of a cheap and smelly wax candle, Anders decided he was going to meet the other apostates. Again, he winced at the thought of the word.

Whether it was a good decision he would discover shortly.


	2. Laws of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders realizes how little he knows and it makes him reconsider a great many things and leads to a decision to stay, and I am spoiling my own work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for some additional characters, the well-known and loves ones are to make their appearances in the next chapter. Love ya.

He knew why they took Karl in the first place.

They found out.

The moment he saw how different Circles’ politics could be, he finally realized they both were lied to, all those years ago, and up until this point.

How didn’t he get it earlier? How didn’t they _both_? Was it because they simply didn’t want to believe that someone would do such a thing to them?

You cannot make people who are crammed up in confined space cease all communication, when it is the only thing that keeps them sane. No one can understand a mage better than another mage. Bonds and friendships are inevitable.

So are passions, whether they are short-lived or eternal.

Theirs was the feeling born out of desperation and in spite of their surroundings. The two were drunk on how forbidden their connection was, but it only felt natural for two young mages, seeking someone to confide in, a soulmate. Together, they were stronger than they ever could be on their own. It was the only thing that kept Anders from running again, and it was beautiful while it lasted.

Now it was all in the past, of course. They weren’t as young as they used to be, and throughout the years they have become completely different people, although with similar interests at their cores. What once had been a blossoming romance was now a lasting friendship built on respect and like-mindedness. Whatever happened and would happen between them at any point in time, Anders knew that in his heart there will always be a place for Karl.

The decision must have come from Greagoir.

He never liked the man, and the feeling was mutual. The Knight-Commander made it clear to him on numerous occasions, both publicly and privately. But First Enchanter Irving would never agree to such a thing. It was a common practice to separate those foolish enough to get caught in action, but they were extremely careful. Just as unwanted pregnancies either were terminated or the parents and their child were surely to be torn apart after birth, romances, fleeting or otherwise, weren’t exactly welcome. Not like they could stop the dry and not-so-dry humping in dark corners — templars and mages both, but it would be foolish to expect grown — and still growing — men and women to avoid their natural attractions.

Why would this particular Circle which prided itself on the talents of its mages choose to just send one of its most promising apprentices away, for nothing in return, not even a hint of a promise of benefit?

Maybe they weren’t as careful as they thought.

Irving treated every mage as if they were his own children. As an enchanter taking up an important position, he could never become a father in a usual sense of a word, but no one could deny him caring about his charges. For all he knew, he _was_ the father of each and every one of those who inhabited the tower. Despite his old age, his memory was more than exceptional: he knew every mage and every templar by name; when he taught, he knew the strengths of every student. Irving could see right through people, but he always saw something special in them and worked hard to nurture the qualities he detected, however weak they were at the time.

He was the only person in Kinloch Hold who believed in him.

Anders never appreciated that. He didn’t need Irving. He despised him.

Instead of even the faintest shadow of regret he found determination to press on.

He kept coming back to this thought again and again as he was heading to Lowtown bazaar. It made the phlegm inside of him boil with fury, and his steps quickened, as did his blood flow. Anders was outraged, and rightfully so. So was Justice. Inhabiting the same body, they moved in unison, the spirit’s burn throbbing in man’s chest.

He had to right the wrongs, but there were too many of them. Would it be foolish to think he could succeed? Sometimes, he thought the answer was beyond him.

Anders found the merchant fast enough, as it was promised. The resistance people did not lie: he could hear the man shouting to attract people to his merchandise even before he entered the market. He followed the ringing voice as he scanned the crowd cautiously, and soon enough, he noticed the red coat he saw yesterday. He reached for his pocket where the note lay, and felt relieved.

The men he got acquainted with were accompanied by a small old woman carrying a huge wicker basket in her wrinkled little hands. She had a brown plain dress on, and a white apron over it, an old yellowish stain, washed a hundred times, in the middle of it. She looked like a humble maid, and not like a mage as Anders assumed she would.

IS THIS SOME KIND OF A JOKE?

He watched them from the crowd for a while, then as the lady continued browsing groceries and picking what she needed for a decent price with impressive haggling skills that could only be acquired through years and years of experience, Anders approached them only to stand by their side without uttering a single word. Delighted to have acknowledge his long-anticipated presence, the apostates led their little gathering slightly away from the mass of people who came to make their purchases.

LOOK WHAT YOU GOT YOURSELF INTO. I WILL NOT HAVE US SLAUGHTERED BECAUSE OF YOUR RECKLESSNESS.

 _Shut up_ , he thought, _just for the love of the Maker, shut up for once._

“Anders, this is Judith,” Grant said, looking forward as the four were nearing the roof of a small inn to duck under it in order to escape the sun, “she’s here to help.” The woman smiled as she reached for her basket to rearrange things she had in it hurriedly.

“Pleased to meet you, Judith,” Anders bowed his head in a concerning twitch that brought her attention, “do you see Karl much?” he blurted out immediately, not wanting to waste his time in case she wasn’t what they said she was.

It wasn’t his plan. He didn’t intend to start a conversation in this way, but his doubts mixed with Justice’s accusations were driving him mad all night. He couldn’t wait any longer, even if he had to suffer some shame for it.

“Enough. At supper, usually,” she said. Her voice was kind. Soothing. “They say he’s a bright man, but it’s not like we can talk. But I can look all I want. To me, he looks lonely and deeply sad. Doesn’t eat much, mostly picks at his food, and most of the days leaves his plate untouched. It’s like he doesn’t like _eating_ for what it is. If I never saw him, I’d be offended.”

It did sound quite like him.

Anders got overwhelmed quickly. Now, he was more confident in his decision to contact those people. But there was a persevering thought that kept on gnawing on his mind, and there was a question he wanted to ask. He felt left out, there was so much he didn’t know, and he also didn’t know the limits of what he could ask, so he decided to do it anyway. _Test the waters_ , he said to himself.

“Judith… _are you a mage?_ ”

She looked him right in the eye, neither surprised nor offended by his question. “No, child, I am but an ordinary woman.”

“Forgive my overly excessive curiosity, but I couldn’t help but notice you don’t wear the robes of a priest, either. For what purpose do you serve the Circle, then?”

Grant and Thurston both had apologetically pathetic facial expressions aimed at Judith, who didn’t seem to mind at all despite how uncomfortable they felt for her. The two apostates had the same thought in mind: they should have told Anders all that before he started embarrassing himself, and, by extension, them as well.

“I make sure that everyone in the Gallows is fed properly. I cook.” When she finished her rearranging, she showed Anders its contents, proudly. “I come to the market to restock every couple days or so. Free as a bird.”

Anders looked completely lost and dumbfounded.

“I thought all menial chores like cleaning, cooking or accounting were performed by the Tranquil?”

The sentence was formed like a question. Grant cut in before Judith answered.

“Although any circle prides itself on the enchanting accomplishments of their Tranquil, the food they cook is considered to be rather bland… Which proved to be a problem for Kirkwall’s templars, somehow. Their, let us say, privilege was also extended to the mages as well, so it’s not all bad, if you ask me.”

“If you get to enjoy Judith’s meals everyday, I’d say life isn’t that bad, but...” Thruston added, chuckling nervously, “it is. It really is that bad.”

“Do they eat separately, at least?” Anders continued to inquire. It all seemed so outlandish to him, as if he traveled to a whole new world instead of simply crossing the sea. The circles were the same but so far apart at the same time, it all seemed surreal to him, like he was thrown in there for the first time. In Kinloch Hold, they understood how harmful building tension could be; that the two opposing sides who had to coexist had to have some time to themselves, and for the inhabitants of the Lake Calenhad Tower such a time was their supper.

“I’m afraid to disappoint you again, but it’s not like that in Kirkwall,” Grant shook his head, “in their endless pursuit for perfect discipline they have decided that everyone has to have their meals together, in the same hall, at the same time. Not at the same table, though, but close enough for it to create pressure for both groups.” He looked around, checking the crowd for heavily armored people in closed helmets. There weren’t any that he could see, but that didn’t seem to be relaxed at his observation. “Anders, we’ll head for the Gallows through the docks and split one by one, and you will be the first. We’ll give you the signal.”

“It is the one time of the day I know that no one’s going to interfere with my... deliveries,” the woman added, whispering and almost bragging about it, “and the quarters are easily reached by the stairs next to the kitchen. I’ll plant your note in his journal, and no one’ll be the wiser.”

“Can I ask you something else, Judith?” Anders said as he turned to the woman. She nodded silently in response. “How long have you been working for the Circle?”

“For more than twenty years now, love,” Judith replied, “and hopefully I’ll live to serve just as long as I already had.”

Her responses only piqued Anders’s curiosity further. The more questions he asked, the more appeared in his head like a particularly persistent swarm of bees, the more difficult it was to stop, and the possibility of him offending Judith with his almost aggressive interrogation seemed to have vanished from things he considered when having this conversation.

It made sense for at least someone to be content with circle’s routines, especially if they could come and go freely. It was the only type of person who would.

Was there something else however? What kept that woman where she was? And why she was working against those who gave her her daily bread?

“Do you like it there? Do they treat you any good?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the looks the young men who made this meeting possible gave himas they were preparing to descend a large set of steps leading down to docks. Thruston went slightly ahead of the group but close enough to talk; Anders and Judith walked in the middle, and Grant was way behind.

Judith seemed to have caught on Anders’s line of thinking pretty quickly. She was all right with being asked question, but she wasn’t with being accused of something, ans she certainly wasn’t the one to mince words. “I… was looking for chances to work in this circle for a long time when I was still young. It’s where my husband was until they transferred him to Wycome. This job is a job much as any other, no different from being a cook or a floor sweeper in some tavern. But if you want to accuse me of doing it in hopes of getting a sop — maybe I am, but what’s that to you?”

“It just seems like whatever they give to you for your services is not enough for you to be fully committed to them,” he noticed.

“Judith is a very brave woman,” Thurston stood up for her, taking everything that came her way personally, “and she’s not the first to smuggle notes into the Circle. There was an incident a couple years back. A templar was caught doing the same. He was discharged dishonorably for that, which is, pretty much is a death sentence for their kind; and the mage he was smuggling for was made Tranquil. It’s not stated anywhere that you can’t do something like this, but it is punishable nonetheless.”

She seemed to have appreciated Thurston’s timely interdiction, but had things to say for herself; her hand slowly stopped the young man from speaking as Judith looked at Anders with such intensity he felt uneasy.

“Look. There are Maker’s laws and the laws of men. It’s not always the same. Sometimes you have to choose which laws you must to follow.” She grabbed Anders’s hand forcefully, but did not cause him any pain. I will never choose man before the Maker.”

“You speak as if you know so much! For all these twenty years I’ve been working here I haven’t seen my sweetheart even once because he was sent away, taken from me. I hoped that they wouldn’t find out we were… related, but we underestimated them. At first I thought that punishment would lie on my shoulders, but Fred got all of it and more. But for some reason they spared me, and… Look, _son_ , all I know is that templars help me write letters for him every Wintersend and they read me what he sends back. Judge me for that if you will, but for us simple people there isn’t much to choose from.”

Anders bit his tongue. She spoke to him in an unnaturally calm voice, but there was so much sadness in it that Anders’s heart sank with pain. Internally, he reprobated himself for going too hard and accusatory on the woman; even though there was no trace of anger on her face, it was clear Judith was on the verge of tears. Everyone could sense it, so they kept on walking in silence for a half a minute before something changed in Judith’s demeanor when she started talking again.

“And if you were wondering, let me answer this question you’re probably having, you just seem like the type of man who loves his questions,” she cackled, “no, I don’t have time to learn to read and write. You try feeding that many mouths every day for a living, I’ll see if you’d have enough time to splash some bloody water on your face.”

The woman’s words shamed him into a violent stupor, once again. She extended her hand, roughly, waiting for him to hand his note. He did so awkwardly, and as she put the folded sheet of paper in her apron pocket, he looked away.

He wanted to apologize, but decided not to. What good would empty words would give this woman? He could do something for her, and not insult her further with his ramblings.

Judith closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Anders decided to steer the conversation towards a more neutral topic, after clearing his throat nervously.

“Is it that bad? How many people are there?”

“More than it’s supposed to be, that’s for sure,” Grant replied instead, “there’s the refugee influx, and then a terrible fire in Starkhaven’s circle. While some took that as an opportunity to escape, others were moved to the Gallows temporarily. With all this, they struggle to find a place for everyone to sleep. It’s overcrowded. to say the least. Some mages even have to live in cells.”

“That’s terrible,” was all he could squeeze out of himself as he imagined being locked up in a small, cold cell all over again. Laying on the stone floor. Writing in a journal to keep himself occupied: poetry, prose, he tried it all. It was only enough for the first few months. Then he ran out of paper.

He didn’t want to remember again. “Terrible.”

Those were the last words he said that day.

“It is time for you to go,” Thruston said coldly, staring down, “we’ll visit later.”

Anders turned right understanding full well it might have been the last time they met.

* * *

 

He felt so disgusted at himself he paid for a visit to a public bath, for the first time in months.

There, chest-deep in clean, hot water, he scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin got all red and scratchy and it became painful for the touch. Yet, he still felt dirty as if he was bathing in mud, and not in water. No amount of scented soap could ever help him feel clean again. There was corruption he could fell etched in his skin, hidden underneath it where he could never hope to reach.

It made him want to vomit.

It used to be so easy for him. No punishment could break his spirit, no humiliation could quench his thirst for freedom, no promise or reward would silence him. Whenever something happened, he would always tell himself it could be worse. A year in solitary with no communication? At least he wasn’t sent to Aeonar. No food except for bread and water? At least they didn’t kill him. They separate him and the only person who ever mattered to him? At least they didn’t make him Tranquil. It could be worse because he knew he would never be subjected to such things.

But to the mages of the Gallows what he imagined to be an over-the-top anxious fantasy was an everyday reality. Passing the Harrowing didn’t mean anything to those people.

They had to live in what he always imagined to be his worst nightmare.

Angrier than ever, Anders put on his clothes, went to Lirene’s, took what little of his possession he left at the store and made a long descent to Darktown. There, he found an abandoned barn he visited yesterday, lit a lantern with a flick of his fingers and hanged it on the outside. He spent the rest of the evening cleaning up as carefully as he could because this place was going to become a beacon for those who needed help.

He was staying.

Whether Karl would be at his side or not, he was staying.


	3. A Mouthful Of Dirt

The past few days made Anders remember many things. Most of all, his Circle life. More so than usual.

A reply from Karl came. Unexpected as it was, Anders was glad.

There were all sorts of information, all he managed to gather during his stay. Catacombs under the Gallows. Most deserted, can’t be reached. Secret tunnels, used by lyrium smugglers. There are drawings inside of what is known, he used the napkin. The templars know, of course. They use these tunnels. There _are_ ways of which they don’t know, but he didn’t say which. Blood sacrifices. Demon worshiping. The phylactery chamber can be reached using the tunnels. It’s possible to escape. Karl wrote jokingly, _You can come visit me sometime,_ _I’m sure they won’t mind. Dress appropriately._

Today, Anders sent back another note, lining out the plan. They were getting closer, and they believed in each other. They could do it. His new-found friends sounded skeptical, but they, too, believed.

Anders was tired. More refugees flocked to the lantern every day. The word spread, but the help he provided was not ever-lasting. He did what he could, but it wore him off. Spirit healing was always the rarest gift, and it was the hardest to maintain, to practice, to give.

He was a vessel. A vessel of greater will. A vessel which will one day deliver justice to those who needed it so desperately, who prayed for it quietly in the dark with tears in their eyes, with anger in their clenched teeth, with righteous fury in their beating hearts.

But for now, all he could do was heal the wounds and protect the innocent.

Something big was coming, and he was a part of it.

 

When he went to sleep, he entered the Fade, and there was something else waiting for him patiently, but it was not a dream, not a fantasy, not even a nightmare. It was a memory, crystal-clear, rich in detail, a perfect recreation of life, constant as always, without a single hint of change. It had appeared before him more than once before, and every time he knew he was in power, he knew he could choose not to remember, not see this memory, but he always did, every time.

 

He is in his cell. Bored. Alone. Each day, Owain brings him food. Three meals, nothing fancy, just enough to get by. He’s not allowed to talk. That’s why they send a Tranquil. They are proficient at following orders. He comes in, not a word, not even a greeting, sets a plate next to him, leaves. It’s the same every day: one baked potato, undercooked, stiff vegetables, one slice of greasy cheese. A jug of cold water, made of clay.

Thanks to Owain’s regular appearances, he knows exactly how long he’s been in his cell. Five months, twenty-three days. Six more to go. He's almost half-way through. Irving comes to visit, more often than Greagoir does. He speaks of forgiveness, he gave him a thick blank journal to occupy his time when they put him in solitary. To think on his behaviour. To repent. To give himself to guilt. Change. Anders doesn’t talk back when he’s spoken to. He’s allowed to do so with Irving, but he doesn’t.

He writes, he sketches, he saves up his paper, but there's enough blank pages to write an epic.

Greagoir, in turn, gave him a red leather-bound tome with a metal sun on cover, it shone brightly in the candlelight. The Chant of Light within. They gave him things to prepare for his year-long journey. He drew on the margins when he read. Vulgar pictures. Naked bodies. Andraste’s tits. Archon orgies. They don’t take the book away. “You can blaspheme all you want when you’re locked up.”

They still have faith.

There’s someone in the adjacent cell. Someone new. They aren’t allowed to talk. They can’t see each other. He can hear rustling. Singing. A young girl’s. It’s an elven song, he’s never heard it before, he doesn’t know the language. Despite all that, he can understand what she’s singing about; it speaks to his soul if not to him directly, the hair on his hands stand straight as if electrified, like a small army. He can feel her small hand reaching to him through stone, although he doubts she intends it. All of a sudden he feels like he’s intruding. His cheeks redden, but he can’t stop listening, can’t stop communing. At this moment, to him, it is the most beautiful thing in the world. Her voice is high and tearful and there is such sadness in it he wants to crawl under his bed. She misses home.

So does he. He longs for a place he will never have.

The guards tell her to stop. She finishes the song quietly, under her nose, putting herself to sleep. This little act of defiance brings smile on his face. He taps on the wall, as if trying to say “I understand”. She doesn’t tap back, but he can fell the heat through dead cold stone.

The walls are magic-proof.

 

When he wakes up, he always has a feeling that he stuffed his mouth with bitter filth before going to sleep. His throat contracts painfully, as if filled with tears.

He knows the words by heart.


	4. A Backward Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders recalls the events that led to his last escape, how it proved to be a betrayal, and I spoil my own work

One misstep into the unforgotten was enough for multitudes many-faced wisps of things long past to manifest themselves and call out to him, like a shining beacon in the dark, every time he closed his eyes. There was a dusky mist, white and impenetrable and thick, like when he was drifting off to peaceful sound sleep, where, again, ugly things met wonders and miracles, and clashed in battle before disappearing into the void. The wisps swirled around, humming and laughing to themselves, and Anders could almost feel someone pulling him by his sleeve, a crisp, ghostly grasp, chilly long fingers on soft fabric, dyed blue and fixed many times... But when he turned his head to look, with open eyes, there was nothing.

_What am I? How did it come to this?_

He encouraged himself not to think, to cleanse his mind; lately he started questioning himself and every choice that led him to this point. The more he thought, the less calm he became; agitated, he would pace back and forth in the makeshift clinic, making bewildered gestures at himself. In angry irritation, he would scratch his cheek, leaving marks on it and then later wondering where he got them.

It was difficult to sustain his self-identity, suppressed as it was, sharing body with a spirit with whom they still were not on the best of terms, although they’ve grown close since their joining. At times, Anders regretted his decision bitterly, but however he felt about it, it could not be fixed at that point. He knew what people would call him if they only knew. Not only was he an apostate, but also an abomination. Spirit or demon, people do not discern between the two; but the mage, in certain points in time, when he was enraged beyond reason, could feel an unnatural, unfamiliar burn, and he wondered where the line between a demon and a spirit lay.

It was a secret he kept closely guarded. As he grew close to the people from the Underground, to whom he was introduced recently by Grant and Thurston, he felt that they deserved to know the truth, because his peculiar position could endanger not only him, but his friends as well. At the same time, however, he understood his suspicion never ceased, and it kept Anders from telling the truth.

He needed more time.

To control the changes occurring in his body, and not so coincidentally, mind, he needed to understand what had stirred Justice. Or was it his own fault?

The events of the past month have put things into perspective so suddenly and with such force, he was forced to react, no more could he stow away his awakening sensibility, throbbing and hammering without tiring somewhere under his heart. It wanted to be set free, but Anders did not let it.

At boiling point, however, he was inclined to change his mind. _What am I?_ He asked himself tirelessly; the first question in the morning, and the last before he fell asleep, so persisting, so relentless, when he laid his hands on the sick or on his way to The Neighbor’s House, it was still there, he was one with the thought.

There were things he wanted to revisit, to remind himself what he used to be like and hopefully witness the growth he expected to be hidden deeply inside and thriving and moving forward. It is almost impossible to notice change if there is nothing to compare it to.

He put off the lantern and let the wisps pull himself into a memory, waiting for him impatiently, shivering, and throwing itself on him when it saw Anders was ready.

* * *

 

It’s leisure hour.

It’s also quiet. Some are taking their afternoon nap, back in their quarters. He sits in the main hall, where the library is, and flips through the soiled pages of an adventure novel, the corners thinned out, marked by the stains of dried saliva. It’s a relief, being able to read something apart from the scripture and his own amateurish drafts which he disposed of, shamefully, on his release from solitary. He’s been reading ravenously since then, everything he could lay his hands on: history, mysticism, orlesian plays, even the one copy of that lewd antivan romance stashed behind massive tomes on herbalism on the farthest shelf in the corner. The adventures he likes the most, dashing knights, benevolent criminals, fighters of supreme iron will, with hearts of gold, wise commanders, down-to-earth generals. He wishes he was one of them. In his dreams, he wields a staff like a lance, riding on a magnificent stallion; he is the winner of many a jousting.

His eyes wander the halls, almost without him knowing, like he has no control over them. In the corner over there, the Amell boy, reclusive as always, older than he looks, face-deep into a tome which looks like it weighs more than the mage holding it. Some apprentices he knows sometimes slip a smaller book under the tome they are supposedly reading and pretend to be doing research, while actually looking at the pretty pictures in the _Dane and the Werewolf_ or silently mouthing fragments of explicit chapters in the _Antivan Kiss_. But the Amell boy is studying, no doubt about that crosses Anders’s mind. He can’t lie, doesn’t understand jokes, and doesn’t speak much. In four days’ time, he will be named Enchanter. He wants to join Isolationists. They are a weird and silent minority, and Athelstan will be the second Isolationist in Kinloch Hold.

_Good luck with that._

Next to him, the person everyone thinks to be his friend, is Jowan, loitering, studying the ceiling, always so dreamy, so detached, like a lost prince of an imaginary kingdom, from one of the romance books the Circle girls are so fond of. Coincidentally, some of those girls like him, give him looks which he ignores. But they are also scared. There are rumors that Jowan secretly dabbles in dark arts, blood magic. When Anders thinks of that, he snickers under his nose. Jowan is so naive and innocent and pious no demon would want to strike a bargain with him, even the most lucrative, even if Chantry made it. In all probability, the lad started the rumor himself.

_What would he ask for, anyway? A better meal? Biscuits they only make for Wintersend? A brief touch of a girl’s hand?_

He is bitterly jealous of Jowan. He wants to take his place. He’d kill for it, if it helped. Jowan is one of Uldred’s apprentices, and he is not even a mage yet. Anders wanted to study under Uldred so badly, — he still wants to — not because he likes his field of research, or due to his particular sympathy for the man, but because of what he stands for.

Uldred is a Libertarian.

He dismissed Anders, when he asked — humbly! — if he could join his tight-knit circle of apprentices, with a simple glance and one phrase that turned his bones to jelly, “You? You are Wynne material, don’t waste my time.” He couldn’t have ignored the fact that Anders had no respect for the Circle’s constraints, that he, too, dreamed of joining Libertarians, but it didn’t matter in the end. Does he think Anders brings too much trouble with him? He is still angry because Uldred rejected him outright, but if he invited Anders to join the fold, if only he reconsidered, he would do so without any thought.

Wynne is an Aequitarian _._

He doesn’t really see the point, it’s not like someone ever disagreed that magic should be used responsibly. To him, at this point of time, they are the same as Loyalists. Chantry apologists.

She sits at the opposite end of the table, in a brown robe with a tall collar, adorned with a wooden brooch with the symbol of the Circle on her breast, with her needlework, which is a warm cloak of some kind, its sleeves embroidered beautifully, raising her eyes to look at those around her sometimes. When she catches his look, she gives him a warm smile, a subtle nod, and a wink.

Wynne is almost fifty years old.

There are grey streaks in her hair, light and glinting in the light of the chandelier, creaking from time to time in the quiet of the library, interrupted by awkward coughs and mages’ murmuring. She is kind, strong and energetic, the energy inside that one woman, shining and warm, is often more than youngsters have. When they brought him to the tower for the first time, all those sixteen years ago, and he refused to speak to anyone, refused to even say his name, when children would circle around him like a group of sharks, trying to squeeze just one word from out of him, employing a multitude different methods, ranging from offering fruit and sweets from their secret stashes to outright harassing the bemused newcomer. In one such raid they went too far, they left an ugly tear on his pillow, they tried to take it from him to provoke.

The children are allowed to keep such things when they are taken away, and the pillow is his most prized possession still, it’s hand-embroidered by his mother, and travels with him at all times. Since his arrival, Wynne kept a close look on him, trying to win his trust, but he did not budge, he did not give up. She fixed it for him, without saying a word, she just looked him in the eye, when he was there, alone, heartbroken, on the verge of tears, and she opened up her palm and showed him a needle. It took her a few minutes, but the tear was gone as if it never existed.

He spoke for the first time, then, to her, and his first words are “Thank you”.

She is fascinated by his talent, she tells him his gift is rare, and tried to push him in direction she deems right. She wants to be his mentor, tries her hardest, and wishes Anders to become her successor.

_Dream on, Wynne, dream on!_

However nice she was then, he is never going to forgive her, he reminds himself as he averts his gaze from her…

_Because before the escape that earned him his year of solitary confinement, the escape that was the shortest of all attempts, so amateur and yet so desperate, they took Karl._

_They announced it, of course. They gathered everyone in the main hall, where he sits right now, they said what an honor it was for them and for Karl to be chosen to represent the Ferelden Circle all the way in the Free Marches, and that they could not be more proud to have made this way with him._

_In his overblown speech, it was clear that Irving did not believe a single word of what he was saying. When he was finished, and a round of applause began, he clapped on Karl’s back, and left him there, his own student, before the audience, a cornered prey, bemused, lost, heartbroken. The First Enchanter was visibly irritated, he retreated perhaps too hastily in his study and shut the door behind him._

_Only Wynne remained, her eyelids heavy with guild and grief. She clasped her hands together and put on a smile._

_“You will have a chance to say goodbye, of course, and we will host a small farewell party tomorrow.. .”_

_Back then, he did not care. His attention was elsewhere. He looked, but did not see, and he heard, but did not listen. He was blind and deaf and mute, and at the same time, overloaded with sensation to such an extent he felt he was going to vomit._

...She gave him a painful look then, when their eyes met, but he turned away, again.

There is a burning pang in him, but the wisps take him away from the memory, without a chance to look back.

* * *

 

It’s 9:30 Dragon.

There’s an important visitor in the Tower. They say the Blight is coming and that war is on the doorstep.

The king requires mages’ help.

It’s like people are going mad at the news. First, a girl panics overmuch for some reason and asks to be made Tranquil, then this Chantry initiate and Jowan collaborate in some sort of blood magic ritual and lash out at the templars. The rumors were true.

The visitor, Warden-Commander, a dark-skinned man in heavy armor, brings the orders from the crown, but allows the heads of the Tower to decide who will join Fereldan army. For himself, he demands one recruit, and while most mages feel it is too much to ask, given that the Circle has already made their contribution to the effort, they cannot oppose an ancient law. The Amell boy is chosen, in the end. It is a great honor, they say, again.

They say farewell, and Anders does, too. The new warden recruit doesn’t seem all enthusiastic, however. Before they are finished, Irving, Uldred and Wynne show up. Greagoir, a steel-clad knight, trails behind them, mouthing something.

“As you well know, the crown has need of us, in these dangerous times, and the times to come,” Irving says in his crackling voice, “we shall not fear, and we shall lend our service once again. One hundred will suffice. Those who come will be under supervision of Wynne and Uldred. Do I have any volunteers?”

He wants to rise up, raise his hand, but he knows full well they won’t take him.

There’s a predatory smirk on Uldred’s face, when they count the heads of those who express their will to come to war. Apparently, it’s not enough, even counting the Tranquil, who are to enchant the warriors’ weapons and provide their support.

“I have an excellent idea,” he says, and Greagoir frowns as a deep crease appears in his brow, dissecting it, “a suggestion, if you will. I think our infamous runaway here might be a good choice.”

“Have you gone completely mad?” Knight-Commander almost shouts, rising from his seat hurriedly as if to stop an attack as another templar behind him, a tall woman with mismatched pauldrons clasped sloppily on her shoulders, scoffs, “absolutely not.”

“Let us not be hasty when it isn’t necessary,” he almost hums a melody when he speaks, a fox on the prowl, he know how to speak, how to gain favor, “Knight-Commander, hear me out, it is no more than a simple proposition which you are always free to reject, of course, if it doesn’t garner favor from the other Enchanters.”

Wynne squints her eyes in disbelief. Irving doesn’t know what to expect from Uldred, and neither does Wynne. He is not a predictable man. He is many things: cunning, collected, ambitious, but not predictable.

“It’s been four years since his last escape attempt, counting that year in a cell... Which brings me to a conclusion that the punishment must have finally put his brains in their place. He’s made a big progress, he’s been more attentive and responsible in his studies — as his mentors will be pleased to confirm I’m sure; and, dare I say it, became skilled enough to be trusted with an apprentice of his own. In due time, of course.”

He doesn’t like being spoken about like he isn’t there, but he keeps his anger within. Uldred doesn’t lie; other Enchanters nod at his words; they have noticed it too: in the few years after his release, Anders grew less complacent and focused on his studies more. But he cannot do much now, if he stands up, if he speaks for himself, he will discredit himself automatically, he’ll be painted as arrogant; Greagor loathes him more than any other mage in the Circle and even the sound of his voice will sound irksome to him, and it will not help his case. All he does is wait, and see and let things happen at himself.

“Let him prove himself. He is coming of age, he is a man, and not a boy any longer. Let him prove that he deserves the title of an enchanter. Let him join our ranks and leave all that unpleasant business in the past. I am sure he’s more than willing. At the very least, he will be useful on the battlefield and can put what we have taught him to practice. I’m sure the king’s people will appreciate a skilled healer to mend their wounds… No offence, Wynne,” a smile beacons from his mouth, with long, horse-like teeth.

“And if he runs again? Are you prepared to take responsibility for that, if you vouch for him so much?” Greagoir is resilient. He will never let it pass.

Uldred scoffs. “The Denerim outpost has his phylactery. It took a day to find him, when he ran last time, and we didn’t even need to contact the Denerim templars. He’s so simple it won’t be a problem. And the phylactery tracking will only come into play if things come to that. On the battlefield, desertion is punishable by death. On the move, he’ll be under watch of templars too, and some of our own… It is easier to hide in the walls of the tower, but in the wilderness? Don’t make me laugh!”

“And if he does something monstrous while he’s on the run, out of desperation? It won’t matter how little it took to capture him if a heinous crime is perpetrated, and if lives are lost! You should know better, Uldred, the people’s tongues are poison — who knows what they will do to the Circle if it is uncovered. We’ve been benevolent, and perhaps, lenient, for too long. We care for our own, me and Irving. I won’t allow the others punished for his transgressions. We enjoy what we have now because his escapes aren’t known outside of the Order.”

The mage looks down at the templar, his bald head shining. “Don’t fret so much, you remind me of an old frail lady, Greagoir. He’s harmless.”

“If I remember correctly, Uldred,” Greagoir composes himself, “you assured us Jowan wasn’t harmless either.”

“Irrelevant,” Uldred retaliates, “We have evidence on the matter. Anders has escaped six times, and in neither attempt had he hurt anyone. If he is captured, and if he’s done worse offence than slapping a tavern wench, then I suggest you impose whatever punishment you see fit. We shall put him in your charge, as I have no doubt, you’ve been dreaming for quite a long time.”

“Hold your horses, Uldred,” Wynne raises her hand, “no one has agreed to it yet. We have voices, too; do not speak for us.”

“Well, then, I suggest we put the matter to vote!” He turns to face the crowd of mages and puts his hands up in the air, the loose sleeves of his robe flap. “If you are in favor of giving Anders a chance to prove himself, if you believe that he deserves to stand with us and earn his title, raise your hand and don’t be shy.”

It is an unspoken rule that only enchanters have the right to vote, as well as the Knight-Commander and his second-in-command. Despite the obvious advantage on the mages’ side, as they outnumber the templar officials, it is a rare case when they are outvoted.

He can’t believe his eyes when he sees the hands of Irving, Uldred, Wynne and Sweeney raise their hands, then Leorah does, hesitantly, while Greagoir, his female counterpart, and Torrin do not.

“It appears I am outvoted,” says the Knight-Commander, defeated ans vexed, and from the look of his face and how his brow creases again in an angry frown, it is abundantly clear he did not expect it to go this way. “You put a lot of trust in him. I hope it is rewarded, and I pray that I am wrong.”

Irving lets out a sigh of relief, but Wynne is more restless than she was before the vote. It seems to him that she raised her hand because she never thought that Uldred’s initiative will garner so much support.

“But let us ask the mage in question,” Irving takes over, looking at Anders with patience and fatherly support, “will you stand with us?”

He stands up, his posture firm, proud as ever, a serious expression in his face.

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

All events scheduled for that evening were canceled so that the mages who were to travel to Ostagar could gather their things. There is exciting chattering in the halls, despite the grave circumstances, and everyone is glad to spend some time outside the tower, see the world again. Ostagar is a Tevinter ruins, those who count ancient history in their fields of interests, throw in their journals, inkwells, quills to make notes. Although it is half-ruined, there is much to learn. Old magic lingers there, and the enchanters are concerned, but it may be a perfect material for a practical lecture. The Blight is a distant threat for now, and most of the mages do not believe they are in danger: they have been summoned by the crown to fight the wars which were not their own far too many times. But even isolated all year round, they have not heard the news of horde approaching.

Anders packed quickly, he knew what to take. His pillow, an extra robe, a thin rolled-up mattress they gave him, small scissors, all neatly arrayed in a leather backpack. The staff he is going to carry in his hand. A cloak is laid on top of the traveling bag, to put on in the morning. It is quite cold.

He has made his decision already, the moment they agreed to take him. He is going to run.

There is a pang of shame, of guilt, that corrodes his soul, gnaws at it, together, they try to separate it from his body, tear it away, punish him for his insolence. The enchanters have put such faith in him, and he was going to betray it.

It’s not a betrayal if you were betrayed first.

The things he tells to himself aren’t working. However hard he tries to rationalize, it’s useless. But he feels as if he has no choice. There won’t be a more perfect opportunity. When they took Karl, when they were saying their goodbyes, he made a promise that Anders would free him no matter the cost. Although some years have passed, and he could notice his feelings dimming each day, he was no oathbreaker.

He is going to fix everything.

But for that, he needs to stay alive. He needs to not be found. He needs money for passage across the Waking Sea. And he needs a will of solid steel.

It is possible to stay hidden even if they have your phylactery. Thanks to his previous escape attempts, he had enough time to test it in different ways. It can push the investigator in the right direction, but it can never show the exact location. To start tracking him down, they would first need to contact Denerim. It takes time. They only reason they found him so quickly during his last attempt was because they anticipated he would run, and put a templar to work with his phylactery at all times in case he got out. They were right.

But if he’s fast enough, he can escape before he encounters templars. After all, most of the tracking process depends on the templar investigator, while a phylactery is no more than just a simple tool, much like a sword. He may try to outsmart them, push them in the wrong direction. They can’t read his mind, not with magic the use of which is sanctioned and allowed.

Inside of the phylactery is blood, essence, interlinked with the mage’s own. If you can thicken yours, raise or lower your temperature artificially, you can trick any templar.

 

When everyone falls asleep, he sneaks out of mage quarters, on his toes, not to make a single sound. He treads lightly in the long dark corridors of the tower, where the candles are out. At night, only the exit is guarded, but the exit doesn’t interest Anders. Tomorrow, he will cross the threshold a free person and never come back to this place.

This escape will be the last, and it is his final decision. He’s had enough. If they capture him, if he fails if he can’t get to Karl and fulfill his promise, he is going to end his life. He’ll drown himself, he’ll jump off a cliff, he’ll put his neck into a rope, he will induce a hemorrhage, bite his own tongue off; whatever he can think of and whatever is convenient for the situation. But most importantly, he must steel himself, for when the time comes, he must not hesitate, his captors will pick this up and he won’t have another chance.

He creeps to the altar, abandoned and lonely in the darkness. After the accomplice initiate was taken to Aeonar, they removed the few of remaining priests who curated it, for questioning. They are unlikely to come back, they will be replaced by new ones, but no one knows when.

He melts the locks on a big cupboard behind the altar, where they keep their relics, candles, things they require for ceremonies and many other things. It takes considerable focus to do it so delicately as he is doing, there is no sound and no smell. He opens it slowly, so that it would not creak, and takes a small chalice, encrusted with jewels and presses it into his chest. On the lower shelf, there are some priest robes, with their ridiculous hats, red and white, red and white, red and white all over again. He pulls a shorter one, the garments of a brother, and closes the cupboard. He got what he needed. In here, he can only hear his own nervous breath, suppressed and hushed, and his own heartbeat, hot and strong, hurting his ears.

By the time they discover the theft, he will be so far away they won’t be able to reach him, even with all their armies, with all their phylacteries.

 

They wake up just before the dawn, and march until the sun again retreats behind the dim horizon. There, they make camp near the river, have supper and go to sleep. The templars oversee their preparations, there are about ten of them around at all times.

They have taken their precautions, of course. He is not yet deemed trustworthy. He’s told to make his bed in the middle, where it is difficult to sneak out of, not without waking up someone. They keep watch, there are two lieutenants on post right now, watching the sleeping mages.

On the neighbouring mattress, Uldred reposes. His pose is not that of a human, more like a wooden statue someone carved with a sharp knife. He doesn’t move, doesn’t snore, at times it seems to Anders that Uldred’s chest does not move to take in air. He was appointed Anders’s guardian for the journey, seeing how hard he fought for him to have another chance. He thinks Uldred died in his sleep.

Anders only pretends to sleep, his right eye is open slightly as he watches the templars back. If he can create a distraction for the both of them to go investigate, he’ll grab his backpack and run as fast as he can. They can’t possibly hope to outrun someone who swam across lake Calenhad in a matter of minutes. He is in a good shape. But such a distraction will surely attract the attention of the mages also, and some of them will be more than glad to lend their hand.

Now is his only chance. They are bound by ancient treaty to join the king’s forces at his command, they can’t afford to be delayed and declared deserters. They will continue on their way as if nothing happened, and won’t risk their lives for one runaway apostate. They will report the incident, of course, but it takes time, and time is on his side.

He is but one step away from long-desired freedom. It would take one leap.

His closed eye joins the open one in disbelief as he watches templar guards lean against the tree trunk and slowly make their way to the ground, clunky in their massive armor. Through closed helmets he can hear muffled yawning, they join their enormous steel heads and stop their movement. He’s heard that templars can sleep standing, you can never see their eyes behind the buckets they wear on their heads. Is this a trick?

He can hear rustling next to him. He closes his eyes. There is a smell of a dead man waking.

It’s Uldred.

“A good night’s sleep, under clear sky, in fresh crisp air never hurt anyone. They deserve some rest, poor boys, don’t you think, after a day’s march and night’s watch?” he says with a sly smile. He expects a round of applause, but cannot hear it, as the audience was put to sleep.

Anders can’t squeeze out a single world. He looks at Uldred, horrified, frozen in place; even his warm blanket is not enough to get rid of cold that entered his bloodstream which he could feel with every cell within his body.

“Do not be so scared, no one will hear us, they sleep so tight nothing will wake them, they deserved it to… Such marches are too much for me, I am too old, I’d prefer some more sleep... But don’t want to sleep, you want to run, don’t you? Do not be so ungrateful with that look of yours!” as the enchanter speaks, he clenches and unclenches his fist repeatedly, but it’s not anxiety or excitement that Anders can detect in him. “Here is your chance that which I offer you, don’t waste it!”

He stands on his knees, drags his backpack closer, but apart from that, doesn’t make a move. “Why?” he asks, confused. What’s happening is so surreal it’s almost impossible to believe he doesn’t see it in his dream. Still doubtful, Anders pinches his palm, and is relieved to see a red mark that the pinch left.

“Do not question me, boy!” it is impossible to say if he is feigning displeasure or just expressing it in his own, strange way, “All I need to say is that your dedication is… admirable… to some of us. Such effort, tireless in your case, must one day bear fruit, but whether it is ripe or rotten, only Maker can reveal... They put you in my charge, so I gather it is up to me to decide what to do with you...”

He doesn’t know how to show his gratitude and whether to do it at all. On his feet, already, looking at the enchanter, he extends his hand and shakes Uldred’s, his palm limp and almost lifeless in Anders’s, and for a second, the mage feels like he squeezes an enormous, disgusting leech which has feasted well recently.

There is a thin red line slowly descending on enchanter’s hand, from under his sleeve of dark fabric, where his wrist is, reaching his fingers, _dripping_. As it touches the ground, and the greedy earth devours it, he can feel the heat coming from it. Uldred notices Anders’s eyes linger on the small stream of blood, and gives him a smile. It is a knowing smile, a smile of someone who enjoys being in power and understanding it full well, without a hint of shame; instead, there is unfiltered pride. It’s dizzying.

“What are you waiting for? Go forth, and don’t look back! Just go, before I change my mind!”


	5. Idle Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders remembers the last details of his last escape prior to his conscription to the Grey Wardens, where he meets his old mentor as this period of time marks the start of changes in his mind, and I spoil my own work

His first measure is to throw away the staff in the nearby river. It is plain, light and wooden, it floats well, and it may float far. Then he turns around and goes upstream.

He runs without stopping for several hours, until his knees start to hurt and he needs a rest. When he feels secure enough, he slips out of his robe — quickly, it only takes two buttons, and one second for each; there is nothing underneath — then puts on the priest robe, which is clean and fresh and smells like starch, and it probably never worn. On his chest now, there is Andraste’s sacred pyre, embroidered in golden thread in many, many layers. Then, there are scissors in his hand, old, almost rusty, with its charming ugliness, only noticeable in small objects. It is the only pair he was able to get without getting noticed. It’s been long since he cut his hair, the last time was before the year he spent in a cell, and during his stay they wouldn’t bring in anything sharper than a fork. He reaches down, near the bank of the river, splashes some water on his face, gets rid of a small bloodstain on his fingertips. In the disturbed, unquiet water, he can see his face, distorted in the waves as he cuts his hair and the locks fall down on the robe, rumpled on the ground under his knees. He goes on until he can see a positively monkish cut in the reflection. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he sets his old robe along with the hair on fire. In a moment, they cease to exist. There is no ashes. No soot.

He presses on.

The stolen chalice chafes in his pack as he continues on his way, alone in the woods he’s never been before.

When the dawn breaks, he stumbles upon a path, a fork in the wilderness, but there is a statue of Our Lady beckoning, looking at the skies, a stone bowl in her lap, where travelers leave their offerings when they pass. At Andraste’s feet, a group of male priests are having their breakfast. They hail Anders when they see one of their own, somewhat ragged and lost, and at first, they are surprised to see a fellow man of the cloth, but then the priests rejoice at his sight, welcoming him to join.

The food they are having is simple, but it is thousand times better than whatever blandness he’s been eating at the Circle. The cooks could as well shove it down his throat. There’s bread and butter, some garlic and cheese, fermented milk and watered-down wine, impossible to get drunk on. As he stuffs his face with what he’s been offered, the brothers ask him how he got lost here in the forest. Quickly, with his mouth stuffed and breadcrumbs on his chin, smudged with dirt, he spins a story of how he went to Denerim but got lost in the woods, led astray by a wolf unaccompanied by his pack, and the further he goes into details, the more food he consumes. The journey, however short, was exhausting nonetheless, even relaxed, he feels his ragged heartbeat in every bone of his body, and they are so light, like a soiled, crumpled parchment, fragile and withered with age; waves of heat emanate from his limbs as perspiration oh his brow slowly cools off and dries up. However adept his physical shape, he is strained and feels as if his lungs were thoroughly polished with sandpaper.

The priests don’t judge and do not mind him devouring their supplies, but their attention is turned fully towards the mage. From time to time, he has to put a hand over his heart, as if a mere thought of the incident was causing him great discomfort. In truth, he pinches his torso under the robe — later he will discover that in doing so he had bruised his rib; internally, he has to hold his laughter in seeing the faces of priests twist with compassion which changes to joy: by a mere coincidence, they are on their way back from a pilgrimage — Orlais, no less — and will be passing through Ferelden’s capital.

Fooling the priests feels good. The glee flowing through him is almost intoxicating. His conscience is either sleeping or a willing and complacent

Their road is long, and their boots are caked in layers upon layer of dry dirt. Anders enjoys their company and holds no grudge against the faithful servants of the Chantry. They seem to be good people, helping those in need, eager to share. They tell different tales which would seem fascinating to anyone, save a young mage. He finds himself at a disadvantage: there is little he can tell that would not raise suspicion, and mostly, he listens and laughs, more often than not to relieve tension gathering in his belly like a tight knot, bringing his meals closer to the gullet.

He sleeps without a blanket to keep his body temperature low and spends many such sleepless nights, but despite his anguish they arrive in Denerim without incident. There, they say their last farewells, embrace each other warmly and affectionately as if they spent half their lives in the same chapter and were connected with more than simple ties of blood. And then they move on.

 

It is the second time Anders finds himself in the capital, the first one being almost twenty years ago. He finds it different from what had been seen in child’s eyes, the city in its wondrous intensity and majestic size, even the smallest rough shacks towering above him threateningly as his mother firmly holds his hand in hers while father wanders off, the whole marketplace and neighboring dark alleyways in striking contrast, the smell of wet dog intensifying the more crowded the place, mixed with the smells of pastry, copper and steel, the resounding call of a blacksmith’s hammer in the distance, the heat and the sparks rushing out from under the roof blackened by the flame... Everything brought a pale smile to his face, brightening it with healthy ruddiness and a seeming smoothness of the plump cheeks.

Now, it is adorned with black flags and veils. The capital mourns its king, but has no choice but to continue its business, if not to simply survive, but to make sure his reign is honored by continued prosperity and perseverance in dire and dark times. There is talk of blight and of civil war, in every corner there are hushed whispers of those, who, just as Anders, are lost and do not know what to make of it. They talk of war, and it is the war of lords, and it concerns him little. Soon he will leave this country for good.

It takes great caution to navigate the dark unfriendly streets while wearing white garments of a brother priest, but still, it does ward off some of the shady characters, hungry for prey in the relative safety of night-time alleys. But he is a new creature in this unfamiliar, hostile world he had only heard of before. They sense him, like a dog can sense fear, like a magpie is drawn by the spark of a single glinting golden coin. A vulture, breathing heavily, with a smirk on his pursed lips, violently pushes him to the wall, reeking of vomit and urine, and pushes a knife to his throat; and his Adam’s apple throbs as he realizes his feet don’t touch the ground, his neck is tickled by the sharpened edge of the serrated blade. The metal smells, too, seeming to absorb some of the sweat. The man holding him against the wall is shorter, but there is some almost inhuman strength in him, it pulsates through his stony knuckles, white and hard; he lacks some of his front teeth, and through the aperture Anders can feel his foul breath, mingled with the odor of stale lager. The burglar’s physical strength is no match to magic he can unleash on him, but it is not something he can do. Magefire leaves distinct marks and traces of lyrium dust. But a Chantry robe can be a more powerful weapon than a staff or a sword when used against a proper adversary. So can magic, especially if it is unrecognizable. He focuses with his eyes open, peering into the criminal’s, and around Anders’s cowled head a small orb of soft light appears, like a heavenly halo.

“Do you threaten a servant of the Maker?”

Piety awakens in the most unpredictable moments for some. The man backs down, losing his knife, and Anders can finally stand on his own again. He performs some kind of a blessing on the criminal and passes on. He smiles, he is proud of his cunning, and laughter is once again bubbling in his stomach. He only has one regret: that no one he knew was there to witness the scene play out; he’s certain they would have commended his sharp wit.

And so he finds what he needs unscathed.

The man who wants to take the relic off his hand does not see Anders’s face, concealed under a dark cowl, and neither does the mage see his. The deal is struck quickly, no excess words are mingled, and the two part their ways. The stolen chalice yields more coin than he anticipated — more than enough for all expenses imaginable, and then some — and he suspects that he was robbed to some extent, but Anders is satisfied with the outcome. A mitigated loss is a small price to pay for even a modicum of peace.

First of all, with the first rays of sun, he buys passage to Kirkwall. It takes some time to get through the busy docks of Denerim, swarmed with workers carrying crates, travelers boarding the ships and merchants, eager to peddle the moment their feet touches dry land. It takes some time for him to navigate the mazes of warehouses circulated by swarms of harbormasters and sailors, leave alone finding the best offer on the market. There is a sloop bound for Kirkwall, sailing in two weeks’ time. It’s not the best turn of events, and not the one he wanted, but there isn’t much choice. The captain has a black swollen hand and wears a ridiculous hat with a purple feather sticking out, too huge for his small balding head, and he blinks nervously when Anders gives him the coin pouch. The man counts it, making sure that everything in order, and now Anders is provided with a berth. The cheapest one he will have to share with someone he does not know.

Then, there is time, too much of it and no way to shorten his stay in the capital. With all the money in his hands and freedom uninterrupted, he decides to make good use of it. He has deserved it, and more. The fact that it is the Chantry’s coin he’s spending only kindles his flame and desire for whatever luxuries a rogue mage can find in the capital, filled to the brim with riches of different sort. The state of the country and the prophesied ruination seem to do little with the goods passing through, on the contrary, more relics, antiquities and talismans appear in possession of merchants sitting on a heap of gold.

He can afford some clothes, slightly better than what a commoner would wear, but not as flashy as something a nobleman would; he drinks the best wine Denerim’s inns can offer as his thoughts constantly race back to the fact that he still has his freedom — it has been long enough for the Ostagar party to report his absence to the Circle, but, as he attempts to console and calm himself, it will probably require some more time for news to reach Denerim. He hopes that will happen after he boards the ship. The mage understands full well that he should not lead such a life just because he has the money to — but the curiosity is to strong for his to simply ignore and hide in a dank corner.

Every day on his way to the Pearl he passes the marketplace to peruse the different wares laid on display of foreigners, and everyday, a tall noblewoman is shopping, always at the same time. She wears a heavy long dress of purple velvet, an uncommon color for the country where the royalty wears brown. There is sweat on her brow and neck, intensifying the perfume she wears, it is still too early in autumn to wear such a dress, but nothing betrays this in her gaze, among the commoners she walks confident, the queen of queens. Behind her, always, is a scraggy meek girl, a servant who has to lift the hems of her dress so that they do not fall in dirt and dung, and her hands tremble under the weight of the rich garment. Her mistress never speaks to her, and when she has to, she uses curt gestures. The girl has one function, her face is a death mask. But still, each time he passes the two, she steals a quick shy glance at him, and there is a laborious smile, which is as pretty as it is ugly in its pain.

They never speak.

* * *

 

The Pearl is a place of many smells: cheap perfume, fresh fruit and cinnamon, scented candlewax, bodies and sex. Satisfaction has a distinct smell, too; it’s heavy like sweat and sweetish, with traces of dust which makes him want to sneeze, but it never comes through his throat or nose, a pleasant, ticklish irritation which is both good to feel and get rid of.

It is wonderful to feel no shame in pleasure, to have it blossom in your chest like a wild fiery orchid, body and soul reinvigorated, unburdened by clothing; skin glistening, moistened with natural oils and creams, adorned with hot drops of musky sweat, illuminated by a single candle. The sounds come because he lets them out, no one expects him to suppress himself, on the contrary, the value the expression. Bodies tangled, limbs writhing on clean sheets, saliva dripping from the corner of the mouth, opened slightly and spontaneously to let out heavy labored breaths filled with joy and satisfaction… To know another, like this, the true pleasure in liberation from constrains, is to know what has been taken from you.

How different and more wonderful would it be to make love to someone special?

The women here are different from the noble wives he encounters from time to time. There is more honesty when you have nothing to hide, like a dagger in the sleeve of a dress you do not wear; they are simple, with their jewelry in their fancy hairdos, on their foreheads and ankles, rings on their smooth elongated fingers, and with their smiles, yellowish teeth hidden behind rosy lips.

The purple lady from the market will never know what true nobility is like, because Anders thinks he knows.

He feels good, and he has no regrets. A true sin is not to use the opportunity when it presents itself — and Maker knows he did. After 17 years they took from him, he doesn’t need much. But there is a lot of things the world owes him — and he takes them peacefully. No one is hurt. This is how it has to be.

They know his name by heart, and greet him with embraces when he comes back, and he brings gifts sometimes — they are glad to have anything, be it a simple knitted scarf and a pair of mittens, or a candy jar. They cheer, they love to talk, sometimes, instead of ‘business’, as they call it, they gather to have some drinks and share a conversation. He doesn’t tell them that in a few days, he’ll be gone forever. On the night before his final journey, they say goodbyes already picturing his visit tomorrow, which will never come.

He will miss this place.

 

When he wakes up in a rented bed in one of the dock inns, he discovers he no longer has his coin purse. The room is untouched, he cannot see any signs of someone else’s presence with his drunken mind. The purse is nowhere to be found, although in desperation he checks under the mattress, and in all pockets of his clothes, he even has an explosive quarrel with an innkeeper which leads nowhere, except for him being finally kicked out.

Angry, he spits, and there is bile and saliva, mixed on the pavement in one thick, disgusting stain. No, it doesn’t matter in the end, he will find a way, what good is gold anyway, he can do pretty well without it. If it is found as easily as it is lost, he should have no trouble once he crosses the Waking Sea.

When he arrives at the pier, the vessel is already gone, its flag flickering in the distance.

* * *

 

The templars arrest him as soon as he arrives in Amaranthine.

Two seconds is enough to freeze lyrium in his blood in order to paralyze. There are several ways for a templar to incapacitate a mage: firing up lyrium so that blood vessels and muscles suffer a massive spasm which prevents all movement, creating an electrical shock to attack nerves, which temporarily ceases brain’s control over the body, and, finally, lyrium can be frozen. Over the course of his now seven escape attempts he had many an exquisite opportunity to be greeted with paralysis, both fiery and crackly. This time, however, when he plunges down on the ground dazed, overtaken with vertigo but little else, his first thought is that of death. When they put him on his feet, his hands are already in chains.

Of all their paralysis methods, this one is the most pleasant.

He remembers his promise to himself: once he has truly tasted freedom and lived as a liberated man, he has no desire to live in seclusion behind guarded doors, to stand accused in a trial before the Knight-Commander who has awaited this moment for years and plead as if he is guilty of being born. No. This is not how it is going to end for him.

He tries to draw on mana, stirring in his blood, but it is of no use, although he does not feel drained; in fact, he hadn’t used magic at all, recently. Then it strikes him, swift: it is not a simple chain binding his hands, an intricate apparatus is attached to it, something he hadn’t noticed because he was still trying to recover from an unexpected blow.

Arcane dampener.

In their paranoiac anxiety to guard themselves from harm they have taken from him his right to end his own life. When has he fully been in their own clutches, if not now?

They put him in a cell, again. At least this time it is not a Circle. He wonders why he wasn’t taken to the Tower immediately, he asks question, but no one answers. He has no right to know, of course, such things are beyond him and his ken. Some time passes without change; one day, a bored, young templar whispers to him that he will probably have to stay in the cell Maker know how long, there has been a letter from the Circle attesting that in its current state the matter of a rogue apostate is the least of their concerns. It didn’t mention what exactly happened, but it was clear that they wanted to control whatever damage was caused, and that whatever happened must have been monstrous.

 

The wait is long. Much longer than he initially expected. At some point, he was thinking of biting off his own tongue and choking on it, if not from anguish he felt in being hold captive, then from boredom. He tried, but it didn’t work, he couldn’t push himself far enough to actually do it. The longer he spent in his sell, the more far-fetched the idea of suicide seemed to him. To not abandon his own promise, he once again promised himself that if he dies, his death must be a message. He will wait until they escort him back, to Lake Calenhad, because the trial will be held in any case, as was the agreement Uldred lured him in, and there, he will set himself on fire so that they may know: death is better than life in the Circle.

A young templar sometimes keeps him company, but Anders never asks his name. He is one of two soldiers who lead him through Vigil’s Keep after they finally receive another letter from the Circle which says that the storm had passed and they have started on fixing things which they chose not to explicitly mention.

Although the keep is huge, there aren’t many people around, some of them are Grey Wardens, but most of them are workers and servants. They look at Anders with curiosity: he still wears the common clothes, and not a mage’s robe, it is only normal for them to ask what that man had done that he is led in chains, held by his elbows by two templars.

But he can feel there is something wrong, there is a smell, a stench of corpses and manure, it is a smell that instills terror in him, although he cannot tell why. The templars can feel it too, he can tell as he notices their noses wrinkle in disgust, but they do not inquire, nor do they talk to anyone. Perhaps it is common for fortresses to have such smells, after all, they are a warmonger’s bastions.

But suddenly there are screams from the inside, the sounds of steel clashing, the gurgling of blood in someone’s throat, a thunderous roar, and everything goes dark as if Maker himself drew a thick curtain over the sun. His guards reach for their swords, then a bell rings so loud Anders’s head starts hurting, he doesn’t know where to look, but if he could, he wouldn’t see; there is blackness and irritation in his eyes and in the eyes of others. Some soldiers approach them, they would appreciate the help, they say. There are bloodstains, dark on their scale armor, it is no human blood, it smells like rotten eggs and moldy meat, and Anders wants to vomit, but there is nothing in his belly to push out, so he swallows back acidic bile that quickly traveled up his gullet.

The templars look at each other, they don’t know how to proceed; they have orders of their own, but without much though or discussion, they follow the soldiers and drag Anders along. Even in this mess, they cannot afford to leave him alone, they have nothing to bind his feet with, and so they lash to danger together.

Inside the keep, there is chaos. It is worse than he could imagine hearing the screams. There are people writhing in agony with blackened veins on their necks and faces, next to a group of wounded wardens there is a body of a woman, cleaved in two, viscera tangled on the floor, mabari hound next to it, sniffing, growling at anyone who dares to come near; a pile of limbs someone meticulously placed in the corner, their stench already spreading; on the other side of the hall, as far as possible, corpses of creatures he’s never seen before. The pool of blood underneath them is black and thick, and it seems there is no end to it, like they will bleed until it floods the hall and drowns all unfortunate to be unable to run; the hound-master is horrified, his hounds are howling, mourning, angry. It is a death knell, mingled with the bells and whimpers. The eyes of the survivors have a mad expression about them, in their orbit, they move too fast, they can’t seem to focus on anything, there are too many things in the hall, and all of them are terrifyingly eldritch.

A man, tears in his eyes as he kneels next to his fallen comrade, face splattered with darkspawn blood, starts screaming.

“There is nothing we can do, if the wardens can’t protect us! We should run!”

They tell him he is a fool, that running is not an option, but this display wears on everyone and a part of his panic slowly sinks in their restless souls.

“Is that a mage? We could use a mage,” one of the captains says, as he leads the templars and their charge away from the main hall, down, in the basement.

“I don’t think it would be wise,” Biff, the older and the higher-ranking of the two says, “this one here is rather notorious for his elusiveness, so to speak.”

“Look, you don’t stand to lose anything here, at this point,” the man replies as the two once again speak not even looking at the captive, “they are coming from the underground, from below the basement. Soon we will be overrun, and there won’t be any magnificent escapes here. If you don’t find him, _they_ will; don’t worry.”

“Wait, what?!” the young templar exclaims, his voice close to a shriek, as Biff crosses his arm on his chest, grim and silent. “We have our orders… We must bring him alive and safe!”

“I think it hardly matters now, Red,” he replies, looking at the man leading the three through the corridor illuminated by torches hanging on the walls, “he has lured us in to help. Our priorities just shifted.”

“Not so fast!” Anders protests, dishonored, “I only agree if you relay a word of my participation in this whole business to the Knight-Commander.”

“Shut it, smart-ass,” Biff scowls, “no one asked _you_ anything. Currently, it’s out of the question. Wiggle your mage fingers well, and maybe then we’ll see.”

“Look, we don’t know if we should count on reinforcements, all right?” the soldier replies nervously, “there was talk of the Warden-Commander overseeing something here, but we haven’t heard from him yet.” He stops before a small closed door and puts his ear to the keyhole, lowering his voice to an aggressive whisper. “There’s someone in that room… more than one... Unclasp him. I have no wish to die.”

He rubs his wrists as they put away the chain and lay it on the ground slowly so that it doesn’t attract unwanted attention from the other side of the door.

“Can he cast?” the soldier asks impatiently, shifting from one feet to another, his iron greaves clunky, in need of greasing.

Before Anders can open his mouth to answer, Biff does it for him.

“Not right now,” his low voice resonates wildly under his bucket helmet, “we should wait a minute or two before his mana regenerates. Maybe more, Maker knows how long he has spent wearing the dampener.”

“You, uh, may feel slightly dizzy...” Red begins, putting up his index finger, but he is too late: the mage bends double, one hand on his stomach, another on a nearby wall, again, swallowing whatever long-digested remains of food he had left.

“...and maybe sick,” the templar finishes, his head wilting guiltily.

Anders feels a flow, a strange, familiar sense of tranquility he had not felt for a long time, like things finally start making sense to him again, even if in truth they do not. There is a rush in his veins, his heart races, it pumps blood in his temples, and he has to rub his head because it feels like exploding. In a minute, it passes, but the mage is still disoriented, unsure how to move his legs and what to do with his arms.

“I think I’m ready,” he says, drawing a deep breath.

“Finally!”

“If the wardens are here, don’t they have their own mages?”

“How should I know?!” the man has to keep himself not to scream at the top of his lungs, “just because the keep was handed to them as a reconciliation gesture from the crown doesn’t mean they maintain it as a real garrison! There is a handful of them, they said more will be arriving, but it’s been weeks!”

“Stop fretting so much, you’ll draw them out!”

“All right, all right!” he responds, irked, “I think… I think I can hear three or four of them… Our commanders are on the other side of the hall this door leads to, if we cross it, we’ll get to them, then we’ll be able to regroup and attack together, and if we’re lucky, it will be enough to stop the bastards… What we’re going to do, is… I’ll bash the door, we go in together, back to back- the beasts have no sense of honor, they stab you in the back without remorse… Watch out for blood, it’s poison, don’t let it come nowhere near your face, and, especially, mouth-” the soldier looks at Red, whose freckles seem to multiply the more puzzled he gets, “-you should probably put your helmet on.” Not even looking or waiting for a response, he continues hastily. “Ready? On the count of one, two… three!”

He bursts the door open, but the darkspawn are already there, brandishing their bloody weapons, and there are more than the expected three or four. They swarm Biff, three short creatures, they pull his helmet from his head, they’re clever, but not as much as they are tenacious: the three men, remaining free of the darkspawn clutches take too long to tear them off templar, a difficult task when the spawn is attacking from the sides, and both sword and spell seem to be useless against their coarse hide. When they finally manage to free Biff from the beasts, they have already started eating his face off. He breathes no more; and they have no time to try and bring him back to life, because the other two warriors are on the ground already, but Anders still stands, having enveloped himself in fire. He tries to push them with force, but they rip through armor deep, tooth and claw, and when it is clear that he cannot kill the creatures without harming his (temporary, he remarks) allies, he launches a massive ball of flame at the cluster and some of the spawn go down immediately, others are knocked out, hissing through their burned lips, but not quite dead. So he directs the fire to consume and swallow them, but his magic is unstable, a little bit wild, and as the last one falls, Anders notices he has burned his hands badly.

Then, there are footsteps, approaching from behind. He prays it isn’t darkspawn because he’s hurt and absolutely drained and doesn’t want to die. But no, it is a man in a warden mantle, and a woman wearing a stupid-looking winged helmet trailing behind. The man is very tall, and carries a staff which is even taller in his left hand, at its edge a chalk piece is attached and leaves a trail. Although he looks somewhat older and wearier, Anders recognizes the Amell boy all the same — his whiskers still unkempt and funny.

The two stop in shock, staring at the pile of corpses at his feet, and Anders is at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what life Athelstan led outside of the circle and how the wardens might have changed him, but he always remembered him to be a loyal mage, albeit with somewhat weird views on how the mages should govern themselves.

“Er... I didn’t do it,” he says in a non-apologetic tone as he notices Amell’s intense stare at him, “I know what they’ve been saying about me, but this? Not my doing.”

Then there is something more familiar about Athelstan than anything. He listens, but his face is withdrawn, his gaze someplace different, he draws something on the floor with chalk intently, but motions for Anders to continue his rushed explanation. There is a glyph he goes on drawing, a combination of circles, crosses and dots, and when he’s finished, he steps over it carefully, and then starts scribbling something again next to his feet.

Always he was like this, what they usually call dreamy, but the word was so alien in regards to this mage. Eyes cold, uninterested, even bored — but he hears every single word you say to him, he pays attention, but for some reason, he will never look you in the eye as if he would die if he did.

It always made Anders feel uneasy, and he avoided Amell’s company when he could.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not broken about them dying, to be perfectly honest. Biff there,” he points at the corpse, “made the funniest gurgling sound when he went down.”

But there is no response from either Amell or the woman, whose mouth is slightly opening in disgust. And so he continues with his conversation he seems to be having with himself.

“Oh I know, I know. Most people enjoy being kicked in the head to be woken up each morning. Me, I’m just so picky.”

He snickers under his nose as he sees that the woman puts her hand to her mouth as if to hold her vomit in. He bows mockingly. “You may call me Anders, my dear lady. I am a mage, and, sadly, a wanted apostate.”

She does her best to ignore him, instead addressing Athelstan. “An apostate? At Vigil’s Keep?”

“You weren’t here when we arrived!” he makes a broad step forward towards her, “I’m sure I would have remembered such a lovely woman as yourself. We were just passing here on our way back to the tower. Then whatever is happening started happening, and now they’re dead. Such a shame...”

“Enough,” the warden says, and an arrogant smirk on Anders’s face is immediately erased, much to the lady’s dark amusement. “You were studying under Wynne, correct? If so, you must know of healing arts. There are many wounded and in need of help, so yours will be _appreciated_.”

“Sure, sure, let’s just keep moving! But first, I have a question… Is the Blight still raging?”

“It’s been over for almost half a year, now,” Amell answers, exaggerating his brow, “did you have no way of knowing?”

“Well, I was captured in Amaranthine and held there Maker knows how long because of the horrible business in the Circle they didn’t tell me of… Until they finally decided to take me back, and then, you know, the darkspawn attacked. Could be a sign, yes?” he brought his hand to his face and scratched his chin. “Isn’t it, though? The Maker moves in mysterious ways.”

He rummages through Biff’s pack, lying on the ground, and grabs the pillow they took from him. Taking it along was the only good thing Biff ever did for him, apart from dying in his stead. The warden motions for them to keep moving, irritated at Anders’s continued speech, and soon they are off, the apostate finally silent.

* * *

 

Rylock is furious.

In a few seconds, when he realizes, Anders will be, too.

She spent so much time tracking and hunting him, and now it is all for naught.

When Amell speaks of joining the Grey Warden ranks, it isn’t a suggestion or an offer or a choice, it is an _order._ Neither it is an escape he imagined. He doesn’t like this, but if he will be protected from the templars and the Chantry, then it would be foolish to argue.

Greagoir’s second-in-command leaves unfulfilled and humiliated by both the Warden-Commander and the King himself.Anders doubts she doesn’t plan some sort of comeback.

 

Amell introduces him to the quartermaster and the smith, he sees through that the new warden is issued his own staff and given a mantle of his choice. Anders accepts, and with gratitude: the gear is well-made, sturdy and is sure to serve him well. But the truth of a warden’s life doesn’t get out of his head. Now, he understands why there is such an area of secrecy around their order. The valor and the power of wardens comes with a heavy price. A price he wasn’t ready to pay, but will be forced to.

He never wanted to be a hero. All he wanted was a simple life. A village herbalist, married, perhaps with some kids of his own to greet him with hugs when he steps over the threshold, with family to hold his hand when he passes away to the Maker’s side.

Instead of this, all he’s going to get is an agonizing death in the depths of the Deep Roads while people of his age will get dozens of years to live.

 

He accepts the gifts he’s offered and smiles humbly when the servants look up to him: a yesterday’s criminal, now a hero in shining armor; but inside his heart there is resentment brewing deep.

Again, all choice was taken from him.

 

When they arrive in Amaranthine, there is a familiar face as they ascend the wide steps to the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer. It’s Wynne. She noticed them from afar, and went to greet them with a warm curl on her dry lips, which is all but erased when she spots Anders in the group. She waves her hand at the group, the long sleeves of her robe flapping in the air like a banner. The Enchanter nods politely to Athelstan, which he acknowledges, and bows deeply in turn. They exchange simple pleasantries at which Anders rolls his eyes quietly as he proceeds to tell dirty jokes to his new travel companion who reeks of rotten fish and spoiled beer. Anders tries to distance himself from the two mages, hoping that Wynne would not be willing to single him out.

He hasn’t forgiven her yet, and he doesn’t need her observation of him going from the pan precisely in the fire.

“Are you here on business?” she asks, more quietly than he is accustomed to know.

“We are,” Athelstan responds.

“Is it urgent? I was hoping if I could borrow your new recruit for some time.”

“Missed me, you old hag?” Oghren shots in, roaring like a beast. The people turn around at the source of the sound, the priestesses close their mouths in terror.

“Although I am certainly glad to see you once again, Oghren, it was not you I spoke of, but of Anders. Can you spare some time to walk with me by the chantry?”

The commander looks at him uneasily, expecting the positive answer. He is compelled to say no, but under the pressure of Amell’s heavy gaze he approaches Wynne cautiously, to Athelstan’s silent approval as he walks away towards the battlements, dragging others along.

There is something new about Wynne, although her energy can be felt simply from her presence, it’s fueled by something else, not zeal, not inner strength… Now it is serenity; her every move seems calm and harmonious, and he can’t remember ever getting such expression from her, it is as if over the course of a year he hasn’t seen her, her age suddenly caught up with her, despite her best attempts to outrun and avoid it.

They walk in silence for a time, and both avoid each other’s eyes, instead looking at the beautiful church and its tapestries, or watching the birds soar by. Then, the enchantress finally speaks first.

“It is good to see you alive and well. How is the new life treating you? You must be awfully happy to finally be free.”

“I am,” he lies. “I’m happy, but with this life come such grave responsibilities that I can hardly call it freedom, Wynne.” It is the first time in years when he’s serious, especially with her.

“It is life. You can’t have one without the other, and those who think that they can, end up in jail or worse. It is a mindset of a blood mage, Anders. Don’t go there, you do not belong in that place.”

“Am I wrong in thinking that a Grey Warden’s life is more about responsibility than any other man’s?”

“You are not, but that does not make you less free. You will not find your peace until there’s nothing in the world that can even possibly impose on you. You ask for too much.”

“On the contrary, I want very little. I don’t ask to live as a king, but I would gladly have a life of a peasant with all it’s downsides if it meant I would be free.”

“To you, it seems little, but for this to happen, the whole world must change, and therefore, it is a lot.”

“You speak like it is wrong to wish for that!”

“Of course it is not. I’m simply making sure that you understand that wanting something, and putting it in motion can prove gruesome and have many lasting consequences.”

He does not reply to that.

“Uldred. He betrayed you in the end, did he not?”

“How do you mean?” Anders’s eyes enlarge when Wynne speaks again.

“The night you escaped, I woke up with a heavy head. I can’t claim to be an expert on blood magic, but it seemed to me a spell, carefully concealed. When they discovered you were gone, there was no talk of this, and I decided not to jump to hasty conclusions, because in spite of everything, I would never have believed that you made a deal with a demon, especially after what happened to Jowan. Uldred seemed to stand up on your behalf, and I told him of my observations. He agreed that we should wait before reporting, seeing that such news may bring unnecessary tension.

“But when we returned from Ostagar, he got agitated… at first, I couldn’t understand why. They searched the tower from the bottom to the top in hopes to find some clues, they’ve discovered that someone’s broken into the cupboard near the altar, and that there was theft… Uldred used this confusion, the Circle’s attention was directed on the outside, which was convenient for him, because no one could predict it when he started his revolt...”

She closes her eyes, and he can physically feel the lump she has in her throat, in his.

“So many lives were wasted, to achieve nothing, and set things back. He has used us all, and he has used you, for his selfish ends.”

Anders doesn’t know how to reply, and so he does not. It doesn’t seem that she blames him for that, instead, there’s pity in her words. But he doesn’t want or need her pity. It is of no help to anyone.

“The manner with which you speak to me… You’re angry with me because of something I’ve done or said… I am old, and I don’t want the weight of old grievances crush me as I’m sure you wouldn’t want as well, were you my age. Truth cannot harm me, I can see the error of my ways, and Maker knows I’ve had more than few. If it can bring some peace of mind to you, then speak, and don’t hold back.”

“Who was it that decided that Karl be transferred to Kirkwall Circle?”

“That unfortunate business… It was none of us mages behind the desicion. The rest doesn’t matter now.”

“But why?”

“What will this answer give you? Peace of mind? Or fuel to rage on, consumed by the flame? If it’s the latter, then the answer’s no good for you. You want to bathe in your own vitriol. Don’t.”

Wynne’s right.

He doesn’t want to accept it.

 _“_ You may brush it all aside,” she says, “think me a preacher, but such is the way of youth, and I don’t blame you for it; I know you will understand it one day. You feed off hate, it keeps you going, for now, but it will consume you in the process. Anders… you must learn to love. To let go. Only then will you truly be free, wherever you go. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut, or that is what they say, yes? I think it holds some truth to it. There are so many bright things in the world, easy to ignore. Do not close your eyes willingly, and you will never lose your way.”

“ It’s a cheap and generic advice, ” he says, surly and dim.

“It is, but it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Look, we have more in common than you think. I know what loss is and how devastating it can be… The transfer initiative… I fought it, Maker knows, and I was not alone. But in the end, it didn’t matter, the final word was not ours. I wish it was different, Anders, I really do, but wishes can’t mend broken hearts, can they now?”

Wynne beckons him to herself, lowering herself on a stone bench as they make a full circle around the chantry. Behind them is a wall of plants and flowers, and their smell is pleasant and almost tranquilizing; Anders’s mind slowly cools down. His former mentor looks at him with a profound sadness in her eyes, but it is mingled with joy and hope; and yet, there is suffering in every single gesture she performs. She looks like she wants to say a lot, but cannot start to find right words. When she finally begins to speak, her voice is weak and slow, but it pulses with power and unfathomable pain.

“Let me tell you something... something I could never say to you directly when we were a part of one... system, let’s call it that... especially when you were a pupil of mine. It’s something which I can now tell you as an old friend, and an equal.

“When I was still young, younger than you are now, to be sure, I discovered I was with child, one day. There was no point in hiding the fact, it would have come out sooner or later, and I had no reason to lie. I went to speak with the First Enchanter, Irving’s predecessor at the time, and it was suggested that I terminate the pregnancy. He did not demand an immediate response, and I was given some time to think. They didn’t announce it to everyone, it would be too cruel and irresponsible, of course, but my friends knew.”

“But whose child was it?” he asks.

“Always you ask so many questions, you, curious, stubborn boy.” Wynne smiles and looks at heavens, like she’s asking the Maker for help to continue this conversation. “It doesn’t matter now, and it didn’t matter then. If you’re wondering if I was a willing participant, then here you have it: I was. It was a fruit of love, not force. This is all you need to know.

“Eventually, I refused to terminate. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, even knowing that it would be painless both for me and for the child. But even knowing that they will take him from me, that we may never know each other… There was hope in me, that this child can lead a good life, and I… who was, who am I to deprive him of that right?

“At first, I though it would be easy for me to part with him. But the more I felt him kicking in my belly, the more I was drawn to him, I felt his presence, and he was a part of me. When I gave birth, I nursed him myself, I gave him a name, I spent my every waking hour with him in my arms... and when I was at my weakest, they took him from me, and I could do nothing but lay in my bed and cry and grieve.

“They have told about me that I gave him away willingly, but in truth, I could do nothing about it, and on the contrary, I refused, and I tried to fight. What could it change? I have agreed to that from the start. But, I was hoping that it would not be so painful to part with him, with my Rhys. In truth, it was a thousand time worse than I have ever imagined… You know how loyal I am to the Circle, even though I now spend much of my time outside of it. Nevertheless, it has taken from me, and it has taken a lot. Again, I know of loss. That was why I fought so hard for Karl’s right to remain in Kinloch Hold.”

What she says shakes Anders to his very core. She looks at Wynne who’s breathing deep, but her chest is shaking, and her wrinkled fingers fidget with the hems of her sleeves, out of which threads are showing. While there is much sorrow on the surface of Circle’s life, the most horrific events happen behind closed doors, hidden away in the darkest corners of minds and hearts. He feels for her, and he is ashamed of how he treated her during his last years in the circle. He wants to apologize, but a simple apology isn’t right compared to his treatment of her.

Wynne wipes off her tears with a handkerchief she takes from a pouch hanging on her belt and blinks rapidly to dry the remaining dampness. “But old stories are not the reason why I invited you to walk with me today. _Y_ ou are not the first apprentice of mine to run off, and neither are you the first to find a better life outside the Circle. For what it is worth, I am glad to see you alive and well and doing some good. You have a bright mind, Anders, and your heart is in the right place, despite what others might say. Please, keep yourself safe.”

The mage is still shaken and irresponsive to some degree. Wynne smiles at him and asks, uncertain, almost embarrassed at her own question, “Tell me something. If your mother was to seek a meeting with you, and if she succeeded, after all these years… How would you react?”

“I’d be glad to see her, of course… If it’s because of your… predicament, then it’s something completely different from mine. Is this why you’re asking?”

“It is. I have learned things about him, over the course of years... He is a mage in one of the orlesian circles, where I will be soon going on business.”

“Then you must be worried if he’s angry at you… If you heed what I have to say, then… If he is a mage, then he will understand.”

“Thank you, Anders,” she says as she departs.

* * *

 

Warden-Commander meets him at the battlements with a steady, but accusing gaze.

“You shouldn’t be so harsh with Wynne. Next time we’ll be in Amaranthine, you will apologize to her, and maybe present her with a gift. I hear she’ll be traveling to Orlais on Fraternity business.”

“I… know,” Anders says, “I’ll do my best.”

“She doesn’t have long left, you know.” Athelstan says, grim.

“How do you mean? Is she sick?”

“It is a long and complicated story. I shall tell you when we leave the city and there are no ears abound.”

 

It is their last visit to Amaranthine before the attack.


	6. When Peasants Befriend Noblemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders makes an alarming discovery after having announced his intentions of creating a Mage Manifesto

He woke up in a state of strange turbulence, with a terrible headache, as if having narrowly escaped from a night terror.

The things he carried with him  in a pack  were scattered on the floor, where dust and hay were mixed  and trampled under the weight of Anders’s body.  He was feverish, and, concluding from the state of his surroundings, in his night-time half-delusional fervor he threw off his mantle, which was now  lying somewhere to his side, feathered pauldrons dirtied.

Still, he felt good. Rarely did his ventures to the Fade, especially after he merged with Justice, end in a satisfactory manner. Despite his general weakness and nagging, dull pain in his bones, he was glad to have seen Wynne, even a simple glimpse of her in his own, albeit lucid memory. It was good to see her even though it caused him great pain not having any influence over the actions of his younger self — forced to be a paralyzed observer, as shameful events of his past in their entirety unfurled before his eyes,  which  now  were  the eyes of a different person.

Somehow, it was even funny for him, seeing himself like that — not just tolerating, but  enjoying the company of Chantry priests,  ignoring the general state of the Circle, feeling no sympathy or any sense of duty or responsibility before those still held in their jail s .  But, at this point, he had many conflicting views, like never before in his life.

He used to blame his brothers and sisters for their own inaction; in his opinion, any action, even  doomed to failure , was better.  Now, he wasn’t so sure of the validity of such  a  point of view. He couldn’t blame them for not knowing any better: some were so afraid it could hardly be called their fault, because the fear was not irrational, but real enough to grasp. At the same time, he  _ could _ blame them for not  _ wanting _ better, both for themselves and others in the Circles; for most of them, to some degree,  were not content with  at least  something in its politics,  but their disagreements rarely went anywhere further, instead stopping at inner  boiling  frustration  that either found its exit  and angry whispers behind dormitory doors.

He kept pondering  about  the current state of all mage folk as he tried to untangle his matted hair with an old broken comb, and in his concentration damaging the skin of his head.  _ The problem is _ , he told himself as his inner conversation went on,  constantly unfulfilled as Justice was interested in Anders’s  line of thinking,  but never intervened,  _ as many of us are united in opinion, most are  divided in purpose,  which we lack due to being criminally disorganized .  Those who wish to fight, especially inside the Circle, do not know how and have no means to do so… _

An idea sprung up in his head; despite the night having worn on his soul, still he woke with a clear mind for the first time during his time in Kirkwall. He felt a surge of enthusiasm and confidence, which was more nourishing than any meal. The though was spinning wildly in his mind, and he was eager to share, but the more  time he spent with it in private, the more details were arranging themselves around it, the more quaintly Anders felt: as if he could see himself outside of his body, being not just an embodiment of that idea, but the idea itself; it was a strange kind of excitement which at the time only inclined Anders to keep going.

  


The Neighbor’s House was a dockside inn, a bulky three story building which stood half-empty for the best part of the year. The innkeeper was a lonely widower named Clarke, who used to run the place with his now departed spouse. The inn has seen better days, but it was a safe haven for Anders and his associates, although he was still getting accustomed to their company and familiarizing himself with their views and plans. There was a grain of distrust in him still, but when he grew reinvigorated in his impassioned state of determination, he was getting more and more convinced that it was about to change drastically.

When he entered, he greeted Jeanne, the elven maid with a non-elven name, who was sweeping the floors day and night, hiding from Thurston’s — who was madly in love with her — lingering hazes behind her thick broomstick. Jeanne was of a small frame, but not malnourished like most of the city elves were: Clarke took good care of her  and always made sure none of his employees and clients did not starve .

He and Jeanne, who constituted the staff of the place knew the three mages who made a habit of frequently gathering at a table near the fireplace. They also knew they were mages because they themselves were the part of this underground force that was being organized with their help. Clark wasn’t a mage, while Jeanne was — by doing her honest work in the Neighbor’s House, she avoided detection by the templars, who didn’t even have a reason to search for her in the first place. She didn’t have to escape the Circle because she was never a part of it.

Judith visited, but seldom, despite the inn being on her way to the marketplace and back, she only dropped by to say a brief hello to Clarke and leave a note for Anders. Grant and Thurston took their residence here, they shared a small but warm room next to the kitchen. When they suggested Anders also take one of the rooms, he politely declined, not just because of his initial and continual distrust, but also because he felt more comfortable among the refugees. There was another matter he chose not to reveal to them, yet another factor contributing to his refusal of their offer: due to his unusual predicament, he did not want to disrupt their operations by drawing templar attention right into the heart of their movement which was still in its infancy.

Maintaining the place must have been hard, as Anders always thought.  The owner, according to his own words, earned his honest coin from sailors and dock workers in due seasons, when every dockside inn and tavern was overcrowded.  During his numerous stays at the Neighbor’s House, he got to meet  and learn about  its haunters. Clarke himself admitted  its better days were now long past, gone with his wife. The spouses lived their whole lives in Kirkwall and they had a mage daughter, about Jeanne’s age, who was taken to the Circle when she turned 11. The reason why the widower let the apostates stay in his inn almost for free, sometimes to his own harm, was due to their determination to find a way to let the mages of the Gallows escape safely. They promised him that his daughter, Martha, will be free, and for this promise Clarke was ready for everything.

The movement, as Grant was intent to call it, counted more than  inn’s residents and rare guests Anders sometimes saw speaking to him. They claimed they had contacts among the clerics and even templars. They did not elaborate what sort of contacts those were, however, and there were many things that prevented Anders from being at ease around them.

His intuition did not fool him, because Grant was a noble — a first son, fallen from grace due to the discovery of his magic and subsequent confinement in the Circle. Grant ow n ed money.  Lots of it.  On numerous occasions, he paid modest sums to Clarke, but most of the time, he seemed to be buying books and studying it in his leisure time — which was, to say, most of the day. Despite his purchases, his purse did not seem to  get  thin, as Anders observed.  He approached Grant once, and asked him a simple question of how he managed to have so much coin without it running low. The young man seemed to have anticipated the question, but still he was  almost insulted when Anders asked him, he got slightly angry and annoyed  as if he tried to insinuate something. He explained that he was born in Kirkwall, and his father was something of a templar sympathizer,  who, when he learned of what his son were, immediately arranged for his ‘transfer’ to Tantervale Circle to try and avoid the badge of shame he expected the family would earn. Even back then, Grant was no less outraged by such decision, and, intending to come back one day, hid some of his own possessions in a stash, which he retrieved when he and Thurston escaped. He even went as far as to demonstrate Anders the pouch itself, almost ripping it open, so that the former warden could make sure it does not have a bottomless pit inside.

Thurston, on the other hand, was something of a wonder to him, and he couldn’t figure him out. He seemed genuinely kind, but sometimes strangely aggressive statements poured from his mouth like vitriol. And still, it seemed like a jest, a poor joke, he seemed pretending to be aggressive, trying to play at it and doing it quite well, but Anders was not fully convinced, so he continued to examine him more closely.

  


It was Thurston who greeted him  first , when he burs t in the inn  like a tempest ,  light on his feet,  on the verge of hyperventilating,  not knowing where t o put his hands, with messy hair and  disheveled mantle.  His looks concerned him little, as he crossed the hall in three wide steps ,  losing feathers, and approached the table at which Grant was seated with a huge leather-bound tome in his hands.

“I wish to make a full commitment,” Anders declared loudly, “to the cause, to you, to our destiny.”

“That is… quite unexpected,” he replied, “I cannot say I am not overjoyed to hear this, but I cannot help but wonder if something prompted this in particular...”

Anders’s agitation was getting the better of him. Excited, he started walking back and forth ,  his hands swinging forcefully, making poor Jeanne retreat to the opposite side of the room. The eyes were upon him, and he did not know where to start, so he simply circled a room in a strange, sterile silence.

It was strange and rather unusual for him to handle himself like that in front of them. He meticulously maintained an easy-going, friendly exterior when spending time with them, avoiding and references to his magic or views on the matter, simply extending his silent approval.  When they raised their hands with drinks, he never joined, when they argued, he never interjected, even when he wanted to. Anders constrained himself to the best of his ability to not give out anything that could be used against him. Such sudden change, without warning or obvious reason, caught the mages off guard.  They were uncomfortably surprised, but had no choice to see how it would play out. Anders was oblivious to their reaction, but even if he did, it would not stop him from going on.

“We are unarmed against the Chantry and her rabid apologists because we don’t have a plan, because we wander aimlessly, trying to do everything at once, while in truth our hands are tied by ourselves and none other!” he began, trying to slow his rapid breathing, “Their voices are louder than ours, a hundredfold, they are united in purpose and in argumentation. The Chant of Light is on their side,” he almost yelled, “or so they might think! We can’t boast an official movement, or doctrine, or thesis we could all refer to… How many times have you heard that cursed verse, Magic should serve man, and never rule over him? If they gave me a copper every time they said it to me, by now I would have be filthy rich! If we want to win, instead of fighting for the sake of fighting, we should meet assembled forces with assembled forces of our own; common myths and misconceptions and the persistent misconstruing of facts must be disproven, and made public for all to see! As of now, there is no one to protect us, protect those stowed in the towers, no organized force. The Fraternities are a joke, they only exist because it is beneficial for the Circle that they exist to keep some minds at ease. They hold no real power, no influence over the Chantry politics, they are simply there for the senior members to feel some sense of belonging, dragged into intoxicating illusion of opposition! We should be that force, that movement that unites and leads and leaves no one behind! I have known many for whom words of change and freedom are nothing more than idle talk to pass up time, I can say this with certainty for I used to be such, I cared for nothing more than my own liberation. 

“When they argue endlessly whether the Templar Order or the Circle is the greater evil, I say I have an answer, and it is neither; the Chantry is the root from which it all stems; they can’t have their precious templars without an excuse of the Circle they allegedly protect, and without them, the Circle is not a harsh enough punishment for our kind! No, they are interlinked, entwined, each drawing on the blood of the other in an endless, parasitic cycle.

“The Chantry is a disgrace to all who believe in the Maker. It has twisted the words of Andraste, erased whole chapters in history of humankind, all this for fleeting, earthly power, it does not care about its followers, because it priorities not their well-being but influence and spread.

“How many times have you heard them hurling their ‘It was through magic that the arrogant magisters entered the Golden City’ when you dared speak against their vile practices? They want to blame us, saying that the Maker abandoned us because of our foul magic, because it was the heathen Tevinter Imperium that burned Andraste at the stake!”

Jeanne looked crestfallen. 

“But...” she said gingerly as she saw Anders turning to her, his eyes flashing crazily, a mask of persistent dedication on his face that made her feel slightly scared, “do you really believe the Maker is not with us, then? That he turned his back on us and...”

He didn’t notice a change in her already meek demeanor, but something made him reply to her in a softer voice as Justice was grasping for his heart in righteous fury. “I think that He loves us more than Chantry wants us  all  to believe, I think He loves us enough to give us one more chance… They say  H e is ashamed of us, but I say  H e is  heartbroken and hurt b y what we have done  to this world . We are His children , and this is not what he wanted for us, not what Andraste fought for. He loves us enough to trust us to make that change, and when we do, it will herald His return!

“The priests believe they know better, that in their ‘vast’ knowledge they should rule over us mages. But how they can be so blind to ignore the fact that it was pride the Chant of Light is speaking of when it tells us of the sins of the magisters, that it was jealousy and vainglory that led Maferath to betray Andraste! They hold us culpable, because we bear that sin in our hearts when we are born with magic, but is the Maker made us this way, why would it be His will to imprison, torture and exploit us. They forget the simplest truth of all, that we are, too, His creations, His children, and His protection and grace are intended for us no less than for them! We are not taking anything from them by declaring it, by taking it back, because this right has always been ours!”

He was breathing heavily, his chest swelling with energy as if in this moment he was speaking to every mage in Thedas instead of a handful of souls in a half-empty inn. As he went on, he only got more inspired, there were sparkles in his eyes, adrenaline was pumping in his blood, in his exhilaration the mage was ready to scale mountains, to rip open the gates of the Gallows  and stand guard like a titan. There was a supernatural strength in him, too, it wasn’t just a feeling, and he could sense it physically,  a roiling wave. A tempest was raging inside him, he  has become th e tempest and did not plan to stop.

“You speak true and it is no less inspiring than anything you have shared with us during our time together, however bried it was,” Grant said, “but forgive me if I, perhaps, seem uninhibited, as your speech has certainly caught me, and I’m sure, it did others, off guard...”

Thurston ,  however, seemed completely captivated, almost bewitched as he heard Anders speak, from him he took the same fire in his eyes which, in turn, was igniting his soul; in all detail which a sharp mind could gather on that young man, it seemed like at this very moment, he drew from the same well of power as Anders did.

“I agree wholeheartedly!” he exclaimed, “If you truly wish to remain at our side, then we must rejoice! Such dedication is rare, and I don’t dare to question anyone else’s motives, but it feels… like… unlike anything I’ve seen!”

“I concur.” Grant added, “There is nothing in your words I can or would like to dispute. I think what you have said may give extraordinary clarity to those seeking it, and I must admit, my mind often wandered the same paths, ruminating on the failures of our ways… Such thoughts, of course, often visit the minds of many mages, although, you rarely hear them spoken out loud. Shame. But still, even though you are suggesting a direction, I have not heard a clear proposition on how to proceed, or...”

Even before the mages started expressing their opinion on Anders’s words, he was fidgeting nervously, trying to control his own energy; he looked unfulfilled and  annoyed, ready to burst. There was still so much he wanted to say, so much more, but they didn’t give him a chance to finish what he started.

“You should take control,” Thurston interjected again, fixating his look full of awe on Anders, “you should be the one to lead us.”

When he heard this,  his face suddenly blanched as if something died inside him.

“I don’t think it would be a wise decision,” he said steadily, trying to withdraw from whatever direction the conversation went in, “it would do no good, especially to you.”

“You’re just being modest. There’s no need to… Listening to you speak… made me feel bolder. Like it breathed new life into me. It could do so much more, it could inspire, bring more followers to join us...”

“No, it’s not what I meant,” he said loudly still, but calmer, “I am afraid that it actually might do more harm than good. There are many, many reasons for that, and I didn’t come here, to you all, so that you elected me to be in some sort of position of power. It’s not what I care about.”

“If we might think about this for a second,” Grant said, scratching his chin, “Anders is right, but I agree with him not because I deem him unfit or unworthy. We need to think farther into the future. We won’t always be hidden. One day, one way or another, we will have to come into the light and the whole world will judge us. I must be honest with you — I don’t think that people are ready for that kind of change. But for it to occur, at some point in time, someone has to make the first step… even if it means death. Who, if not us? I have pledged my life for the cause long ago, when I decided to escape the Circle...”

“We are the cause of mages,” Anders added.

“What I meant to say was that the Chantry will resist relentlessly should we name it our enemy. It will try and use every dirty trick at its disposal. We will be branded heretics, cultists… History has given us enough examples and warnings. But it also provides insight and gives hope. No heretical movement or sect is possible without a leader. They often possess unearthly charisma, and even if in the beginning they had some cause behind them, later, their followers simply remain in the shadow of their leader, whichever sect he had by that time manage to create, stumbling in the shadows, forgetful of their principles, led astray. To avoid that, we should hold no hierarchy, no positions of power, our cause will belong to each and every one of us, so that we are not accused of heresy.”

“With respect,” Anders said, stern, a human manifestation of an ivory tower, “how do you expect it to work? It sounds great in theory, there’s no denying that. But no movement can exist or function properly without hierarchy. Even organizations with well-structured positions of power sometimes struggle when they need to make a decision — take the clerical council of the Chantry, for example.”

“It can work, for now,” he replied defensively, “we don’t command enough numbers for it to become cumbersome at this point. It’s a conversation for another time, when we will truly have to consider the brand of heresy hanging above our heads.”

“I think we will be accused of heresy, no matter what we do or don’t do.” Thurston noted pessimistically.

“Then I embrace it with open arms!” Anders exclaimed. “The Chantry is the greatest heretic of all. Let them brand us however they like. The people will see the truth, even if blood is the one thing to finally open their eyes. If they can’t do it on their own, something must make them see.”

“What blood?” Grant asked, somewhat confused.

“Our blood. Their blood, which I would prefer. Does it matter? There will be blood when the time comes, you’ve said it yourself.”

“I didn’t mean slaughter. I meant sacrifice. Sacrificing ourselves, figuratively and literally is the only way to demonstrate to the public we pose no threat to the power balance of noblemen or the Chantry...”

“If it gets some templars killed along the way, than I am more than happy to assist in any endeavor,” Thurston clasped his hands together, rubbing his palms, “the bastards have it coming.”

The elven girl was taken aback by his sudden statement, brimming with violence.

“Don’t you think it’s a little harsh, to wish them dead?” she asked. “Surely, it can be avoided...”

“Maybe. I’ve often been told I should be grateful. I was taught to read and write, to speak like a learned man. They nurtured scholarly aptitudes in me, encouraged discoveries… But I am still the same simple man they took in, a farmhand, and no philosopher they want me to be.” He spoke very gently, looking warmly into her eyes, “But I still have my opinions, which are not necessarily good or right, I am used to saying what lies in my heart. I see no point in hiding it, I want to be honest with myself and others. I know it would not be better for everyone if we slaughtered every templar, but I know it would be for me. This is why I only wish to follow and never lead, do you see?”

“But what good would it do? Why do you desire their deaths so?”

“Because I resent them bitterly, and I resent everything they stand for. I spit in the faces of those who say that there are some who are different, who are benevolent, kind… Do not delude yourself with such tales, Jeanne, please,” he pleaded, “for they know full well what they are doing. Pitting brother against brother, father against son… Tearing families apart. This power they hold in their hands is ugly. No one should have that. Even if a templar never separated a child from his parents, even if he never witnessed such atrocity, they still have caused suffering inadvertently because they chose the life in their Order. This screams silent support to me. And I think that no one who is responsible for such deeds has any shred of kindness or benevolence!”

Anders creased his brow i n deep sympathy.

“The story is always the same for us. Details are different, but the path is always the same. You always leave someone behind when they take you away, and most of the time, it means losing them forever,” he said.

“I am glad you never had to go through this,” Thurston said to Jeanne, “but for me… It changed a lot and brought out things I never had in me before, both good and bad. What the templars did to me… it destroyed my family. Can you really blame me for taking comfort in such thoughts?”

“I’m so sorry,” she rambled with a guilty look, “I didn’t mean to...”

“Don’t apologize. There’s nothing wrong with asking questions or being curious.”

She put her  thin  little hand on his shoulder.  It was trembling, and she had to press it into his flesh for him not to notice that.

“If it means anything… I hope you will reunite with them some day. I will pray.”

“I wish I could,” he said grimly.

Jeanne was flushed red,  flabbergasted and completely speechless .  Understanding his reasoning did not make her agree with him, but she was ashamed that she overextended  in her prying.

“Look… My mother was sick, my father was old, and I am the oldest of nine children. We tended the fields, dawn to dusk, and when my mother could no longer walk, I took her part of work, the harvest, looking out for my little brothers and sisters… It wasn’t easy, but I always felt I was right there, where I belonged, and when I went to sleep and my body ached, it felt pleasant to me because it was the result of all work I was so proud of...” he trailed off. “Then, magic came. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but if it could hep in our craft, then I thought I could live with this sin in my blood.

“But they came and they took me away. I missed my family terribly, but my own feelings must have paled in comparison to what they had to go through… All this work on father’s shoulders. I was angry at myself because I couldn’t be there for them, to help… I was a model student, I wanted to make their lives easier, I dreamed of inventing some sort of an apparatus,” he chuckled, “that could ease a farmer’s burden, but it proved too difficult for my simple mind. I wrote letters every month, but at some point, they stopped replying… To say I was scared would be a gross understatement.

“Of course I ran for the farm when we escaped, Grant and I, where else would I go? I don’t know what I expected to see once I got there, but it wasn’t home I returned to. There was only six of them left, instead of ten… I thought I could fix it somehow, but father wouldn’t let me stay, he threatened he’d call the templars, he drove me away, he wouldn’t let me help in any way. I could do so much, but he just wouldn’t let it… I don’t know. It’s been a couple of years ago. And I’ve heard recently that there were more deaths. Starvation. They couldn’t maintain the farm, it got overgrown, fields were barren, they brought no harvest… It is now in bann’s disposal to do with as he pleases. He did nothing to protect them.

“Everything I had is burned away without a trace. I will never understand why such cruelty must exist. I worship the Maker, and I am no blasphemer, but this is something that they would do to a _heathe_ n.”

The reign of silence was strong  after he stopped speaking . It continued for whole ten minutes, and eventually, the maid could not bear the pressure of its sterility and left the hall,  hiding behind her broom .  Clarke, thoughtful and attentive to words of mages, never uttered a sound, cleaning wooden tankards with a linen rag.  It wasn’t unusual behaviour for him, he rarely spoke, but loved to listen. After the exchange, something changed in his posture and the movement of his hands.  He,  too, felt unwanted,  out of place, so he joined Jeanne back at the kitchen.

“We will not let this happen again. This is pure savagery,” Grant promised to him. In response, his friend only bowed his head down like it was to heavy for his neck. Nevertheless, he gave Anders an interested look, trying to straighten his gait. There was certain hope in his eyes, the hope ignited by how furiously he entered the scene, how loyal and determined he seemed. There was expectation, Thurston was waiting for something, and simple words could not bring him comfort he was so desperately looking for.

“This is why I came,” Anders said, looking at him. Deprived of his initial spirit, in his voice, however, there was something that felt like steel. “Because I think I have a plan for us. We need our own manifesto to use as a weapon. Spoken word is strong, indeed, but written word can reach so far it’s difficult to imagine. It would be foolish to think that we can convince everyone, but for us, it will be enough to simply plant the seed of doubt. Those who already doubt, can reconsider, join us, or at least, feel sympathy. The public opinion will sway, and all those imprisoned will know that there are people out there, fighting for them, they will feel our efforts as they read the words… And it will be their weapon in places where all weapons are taken away by force. The word is stronger than any blade because you cannot make a person cease his thoughts.”

“Wise.”

All three stood together, each of them, to some degree, separated from reality, floating in their minds free of the flow of time. Thurston looked like someone who was recovering after swallowing a pound of shattered glass.  They could feel the tug of the real world slowly slipping away. The only anchor that kept them grounded was a faint sense of belonging, refreshed in their souls.  They looked at each other like one would look at a convicted criminal, someone who will be executed, led to the scaffold in humiliation before being executed in the , 

“I have some groundwork… in my mind, as of now,” he continued, “but I would be glad to put it on paper for your appraisal. Then we can discuss how to properly copy and distribute it.”

“We’ll be honored,” Grant replied.

Anders exhaled  with relief.

I t was a  truly  pathetic day.

  


He dropped by Lirene’s on his way back ,  no more relaxed than he was in the morning.

“You’re getting famous,” she greeted him curtly with a lazy wave of her hand.

Brevity, as Anders knew well since he met her, was undoubtedly something she absorbed with her mother’s milk. She set before him a clay plate on which she put a round meat pie she cooked herself. It was hot, and the store smelled like warm bread and porridge. It’s been slightly past dinner time, and most of the refugees were still around

“Beg your pardon?”

“A Revered Mother was looking for you. She looked discontent like she was sent on an errand. I didn’t tell her anything, of course, said I don’t know any wardens,” Lirene said, noticing Anders’s urgent look, “but she left a this anyway. Here.”

She began cleaning the counter with a dishrag, freeing more space for the mage to put his hands on comfortably.  He was piercing the piece of a pie with a fork, seemingly uninterested in the meal. Lirene gave him a look which made him give up and put the stabbed pie in his mouth.

“Can’t say I know any Chantry sisters, let alone Revered Mothers… Why one would come looking for me, especially here, is a total mystery to me. Maybe I’ve sinned,” he said as his face was widening in a smug grin, “but it is the first time I hear of a nun chasing after apostates all alone.”

“Well, whatever she was after, wasn’t really a priority for her, or so it seemed to me. She gave up pretty easily, it took me just one instance of denial. But! She left _thi_ s,” Lirene pointed to a small piece of paper placed on a lid of a small wooden box, “and hurried off… Look. I don’t know who that was or why she went here of all places any better than you do, but… You should be more careful, Anders,” she urged, “do keep a low profile, for Maker’s sake. We stick our backs out for you. You are one of us… You know damn well that if the templars come, I’ll do whatever it is in my power to do. We all will. I’m just afraid that it won’t be enough… So if you will, please, don’t let it come to that… You... just don’t know what you are to these people… In this harsh, unforgiving country that rejects them so cruelly at every step, you are everything to them. They need you. We do.”

“I know what I am to them,” he replied, suddenly somber, “a mage. I’ve seen how they look at me. There is fear in their eyes, Lirene, they are distrustful and they are scared of me, no matter what I do.”

“Don’t say that, you know it’s not true. You can’t blame them for behaving cautiously in such circumstances!”

“I know it’s not their fault. But I’ve been healing for so long, and still I see the same reaction every day. They trust you when you send them to me, but even that trust is not enough to also extend to me. The only redeeming factor they see in me is that I am… was a warden. If they knew the truth… They wouldn’t be as forthcoming as they are now.”

“Give it time, Anders. Change doesn’t happen overnight.”

“And yet, this understanding doesn’t make it any easier. I try to sew the wounds and treat ailments in a surgical way as much as possible, because it is not as exhausting as doing it with my magic, and because it scares people less, surprisingly. Sometimes I can’t lift my hands or feet because of how drained the healing process has left me. And I know they are grateful, I am not angry at them, but I am angry at many different things, and anger is not a light emotion to carry inside all the time.

“I know,” she said, “but I also know that we’ll get through this. The people will build their trust. You have set an excellent example. Ferelden has already started rebuilding, I get the news almost every day. Strange, but they say Denerim is now in better shape than ever before,” the woman chuckled, “ironic that the only thing that brought change about was the end of the world. You can’t help but love this about us fereldans,” she sighed. “Soon, many will be able to go to their homes. I only pray it’s not too long a wait.”

Chewing, Anders nodded.

“When the time comes… Do you think you will go home, too?”

“Ah, no. If I wanted to plug my nose every time I went outside, I could just visit Darktown. Besides, I never really had a home for twenty-” he started chewing more intensively as he contemplated the fact that it really took him so long to be free of Circle’s clutches.

It still wasn’t enough.

“-twenty years. The wardens taught me something I hold up to still. Home is wherever you go.”

“What about your family? Will you pay them a visit, at least?”

“I don’t want to endanger them by my presence. And I don’t think they will be all that happy to see me. Well, one of them, at least, which is enough.”

“It’s been twenty years. You might as well try.”

Anders scoffed.

“I don’t even know where they are now! Maybe they’ve moved on. Maybe they live in a different place now. Maybe they fled with the refugees. I don’t know where to look for them. It would still my heart to know they are alive and well, but now I just have no way of knowing.”

“I think they would be proud of you,” Lirene said, smiling, as a small but deep crease appeared in the corner of her eyes, dark and warm. 

“Mother, perhaps. Father… there’s a whole different story.”

Overcome with concern he tried to carefully hide from Lirene, he finally took the note she slipped to him over the counter. It was small and crumpled, and smelled of incense. He opened it and saw Karl’s handwriting. Something about it was amiss, different. More orderly than usual… When he started actually reading into the words on that sheet of paper, it sent shivers down his spine. A piece of pie got stuck in his throat, hard like stone, and it hurt to swallow it. He could feel it slowly descend into his stomach as his eyes stared narrowly into the thin yellowish rectangle ridden with sentences that seemed so alien to him that all shapes started to get blurry, amalgamating.

Lirene’s culinary  skills were  clearly  humiliated by this.

“I… I need to go,” he said, clumsily rising from the chair and rapidly advancing towards the exit.

“Anders!” Lirene yelled, to no avail. “Anders!”

He looked back at her, holding the doorknob, looking like he wanted to say something, but he bit his tongue guiltily, tapp ing with his heels impatiently, and left,  giving her a look that said “sorry” .

“Don’t do anything foolish!”

Lirene sighed as she watched the door close behind him. He wasn’t going to come back.  She knew.

* * *

 

Something was wrong, but he  just couldn’t figure out what.

He studied each sentence carefully, he looked at each letter, wondering if it contained a hidden message, because the note itself didn’t make any sense to him. It was very short, but this only made it more worrying.

  


_ Anders. _

_ Come to the Chantry tomorrow after midnight. I have something important to tell you .  Please. It is the only opportunity we will get in the foreseeable future. _

_ -Karl _

  


He held it over the candle, trying to see something written in invisible ink or some sort of a pattern in letters which seemed more bold than others. He twisted and turned and folded the letter many times, looking carefully at each side, placing it under his magnifying glass, he smeared the paper with different mixtures in hopes of seeing something, just something — until it turned limp and acquired a warm blue hue instead of dirty yellow.

All of this, in vain.

Even if there was a secret code, he could not see the clues.

Anxious, with his heart stuck in his lungs, he took off the lantern outside his clinic and barred the doors.  Not now , he thought, not know, when we are so close…  Even though it was already dark outside and the sun has hidden behind the horizon, he felt hot like he was put in a boiling bath. Anders took of his mantle and continued about in his thin shirt.

There was only one answer he could conjure that seemed realistic: templars were onto him. They made Karl write this letter to him to draw him out  in a quiet place where a mage warden would be defenseless. They made him do it, he’d never agree willingly, so Karl tried to warn him as subtly as he could, by changing his handwriting just enough for them not to notice the difference, but enough to tip off Anders.

This, on the very same day  he brought his proposition of immediate action, seemed very suspicious. It was exactly what he was so afraid of, and now, his fears were confirmed. He has heard of some cases of templars instigating a heretical or playing-at-revolutinary movement only to arrest its members later.  For them to be considered dangerous by the Chantry, they had to set a plan of their actions, even the vaguest one.  Anders used to suspect  the mages who approached him first, but over time, he bonded with them,  although he was hoping it wouldn’t happen. Now, he believed their intent was true. But there were more people associated with them, Anders couldn’t hope to meet them all. One of them could be a templar spy.

This thought made him quickly go from feverish to almost frozen. He has exposed himself for a blow. A scar on his chest throbbed in unison with his pulsating heart. He put his hand over it; he could feel the healed, coarse skin even under the linen. This was a gift he received when he had to fight a templar last time.

Suddenly, he felt parched. There wasn’t any water.  Normally, he went to draw a huge bucket of water in the morning or, if  it was required, in the evening. Now, it stood empty, and he was under a spell of apprehension, strong enough for the mage to simply dismiss his thirst.

They could be coming for his at that very moment. He rushed to the doors, inspected them thoroughly, unbarred, and then barred them again. Still, all of this could not make him stop worrying. There was no entrance to the clinic except the front, now, deprived of illumination and  looking abandoned, much like anything in the Undercity. Anders tried to calm himself in an inner argument, telling himself that even if the templars were searching for him, they might simply overlook the shabby barn.

The wound started hurting again. He wasn’t afraid of the templars themselves — after all, he took a blade in the chest and lived — it was the fact of discovery he was afraid of. Anders wasn’t ready for that yet. Neither was he ready to kill in a place he would have to stay for some time.

The apostate thrust his fingers onto his skull, massaging the scalp roughly, scratching and tugging at the roots of strands of hair. It was greasy,  the color of dirty straw,  and  took of a new, messy shape quickly. Sometimes, doing so helped him think.

If he is alive by tomorrow morning, either having survived the attack or avoided it, he needed to know precisely what to do next. He slapped himself on the cheek, and although there was no looking glass in handy, he could feel a red mark in the shape of a palm on the right side of his face. How stupid could he be? He shouldn’t have taken the note with him. He should have read it and left it where Lirene put it. If they come to check tomorrow, they’ll know he frequented her store. They’ll know they are associated. Lirene will be in trouble. Even if she tells them she threw the note away, and even if it was true, they wouldn’t abandon their suspicion. Now, it was in no state to be returned, even if he could run back to Lirene’s. They’ll know he had read it.

It was such an obvious trap, and he already stepped in it with one leg.

Maybe he should pretend he is more stupid than he actually is.  Maybe he should go all the way. If they are using Karl, they might go all the way into their crafted lie, as well. If there is even the smallest chance they will bring him here, then he must go.

It was insane. It was foolish. He was alarmed at how quickly he agreed with himself on the matter.

He had to do it. He felt like he had no choice.

It wasn’t going to end well for at least one of them, and Anders needed to make sure that Karl would not be alone.

  


Most of the night he walked circles inside of his clinic, alarmed and angry at his own alarm, then, at the break of night, he falls asleep, alone.

No one comes.


	7. Troubled Waters and Worried Fires

“The only Warden I know is in his rightful place on Fereldan throne,” Lirene said, resting her strong arms folded on the wooden counter, painted in blue and smelling of home, a powerful steely gaze in her dark earthen eyes, “long may he reign. And unless you want to praise his ruling or purchase something from me right over here, I highly recommend you go.”

The merchant gave them a long, cold stare as if her whole stance couldn’t speak more colorfully.

“Surely you must know something,” a young woman, poorly armored, protested, “I’m not asking you to engage in dirty rumor mongering, which I’m sure is beneath you... but you are the whole world to these people who come to you for help, and considering how much time you spend with them, you must have at least heard something. Even the smallest thing could help. If you’re worried, we’re more than willing to recompense. We will do so regardless of what you choose. It’s just, I’m sure you very much like your charges being clothed and fed.”

Lirene didn’t move, it seemed she didn’t even breathe as her chest and abdomen almost turned to stone and only her wise, lively pupils moved, looking right past her visitors.

“What I like is not being threatened in my store,” she pointed her finger to the exit. “This conversation is over. The door is that way.”

The woman shook her head, not ready to give up yet. She bit her lower lip with the upper one and joined her index fingers together, trying to think of something else that would sway this unbending tradeswoman their way, but there wasn’t enough time for that. The dwarf who was with her made sure of that.

“Well, thanks for seeing us, I guess,” he who was accompanying the woman said, turning around, feeling the hostile looks of dozens of people inhabiting the place. Pushing Lirene would do nothing except make everyone antagonize them, and such a turn of events was the furthest from what they wanted to achieve.

“Any time, sweetheart,” a smile of relief shone on the woman’s face as she finally let herself exhale.

With a confident move of her hand, she reached for her coin purse, tied to her sword belt, and carefully put a silver piece in a small box on the counter. It made a clinking sound, joining a small pile of copper, silver and rare gold pieces. The dwarf nodded in approval as they gave each other pathetic glances, closing the door from the other side.

 

Varric was Regan Hawke’s most treasured friend. Their strange friendship began as a half-assed attempt to piss off his older brother Bartrand, a man for whom money mattered more than anything else in the world. From there, they breezed their way through partnership to firm and solid friendship.

He was nothing like you’d imagine your fellow dwarf to be; out of many insufferable qualities his kind had, Varric managed to retain only occasional grumbling, and even that never without cause. He had a keen entrepreneurial mind and no beard — a rare and unusual combination. The lack of beard on his always smooth and clean-shaven face was considered to be an insult to the dwarven heritage by his brother whose beard was so long and thick and requiring hours of braiding, that he wore it braided at all times, not even setting it loose when he went to sleep. The beard to him, and to a great number of other dwarves, both surfacers and the citizens of the underground city of Orzammar, signified a connection to the Stone; the women were adherent to the rule also. Once Varric stressed that he had never met a bearded dwarven maid, but Bartrand only smiled mysteriously in response, and whispered quietly to his ear one word, and the word was “places”.

He was born noble, but lived like a peasant, owning a room in a local infamous tavern, The Hanged Man. No luxuries — a stone bed which was a gift from the Merchants Guild, an old wooden table which Varric bought off hands and which was about to break, two moth-eaten armchairs, their days of glory long past, and a small store of liquor to entertain his guests in a relaxed fashion. He also owned a small library and occasionally dabbled in writing himself. He called the place he lived in a shithole, but he loved his shithole with all his heart.

A peasant he was, but a neat and tidy one. He wore an old leather jacket that was clearly tailored for a wide-chested human, but Varric had it sewn on, shortening the sleeves and hems to fit his height. Under it, he put on heavy cotton shirts of bright colors, buttons undone, embroidered with woolen threads, and on special occasions the threads were of golden or argent tints. He kept his room clean with no help from the servants and paid his fees on time without delays. He was a simple man of earthly pleasures and few opinions, save for preferring human literature to dwarven and beer to wine regardless of occasion. It was perhaps the only thing on which Varric and Regan disagreed; she loved both beverages equally. She kept the investment money in his charge to avoid her Uncle gambling it away, often, visiting her friend, she would count the coins only to notice that he had thrown in a sovereign or two. However, when confronted, he confirmed nothing, denied all knowledge of such acts and simply told Hawke she was bad at arithmetic.

 

It took a couple of moments for them to recover from being rejected so quickly and so relentlessly. She had a talent, surely, and Hawke thought of the woman fondly, but she wished they had Lirene on their side.

“Well, that could have gone better,” he said, putting a soothing smile on his face, ready to go on, as always, reaching for his pocket, in which there are small sunflower seeds, and he started chewing on them.

“But it also could have gone worse,” Regan replied, “and I doubt it’s a dead end, honestly, I don’t really want to believe that. Now where would we be if it was?”

She was almost offended at the notion that Lirene did not recognize a compatriot in her; there was an accent, thick, a novelty for a Marcher — and Lirene was not a Marcher— and still, where other fereldans found comfort, just in a glance, a familiar note in a voice, in how a sentence is formed, in the way a head lowers when a name of the king is mentioned, in stubbornness and bravery present in the smallest things — and she simply chose to ignore it, she must have. Hawke refused to believe otherwise.

“The ass end of trouble?” the dwarf feigned grumpiness, “Adversity is fine, you just have to get more creative than usual.”

“Hm… Let me think then. Is she married? Do you know anything about her husband?”

“I’ve never met him, if that’s what you’re aiming at, but I’ve heard of him. Noble. But I could tell you a thing or two based on our not-so-pleasant visit. Nothing unusual, though, if self-evident.”

“Hit me.”

Regan nodded and pretended it was a revelation.

“She’s the laughing stock for the Merchants’ Guild. Doesn’t care about profit, you need a lot of money to keep that sort of business going. He doesn’t seem to mind, he’s happy because his wife is happy. It would be the same to him, what her hobby is, whether it’s providing job for the refugees and hanging around with them or treating lepers — he can afford it and is amused seeing her busy herself with all that work. I know the type. They have their small gatherings, of husbands, that is, and they show off, tell each other what good work whose wife is doing, and how well.”

“She’s not just hanging around with fereldans,” Regan said, thoughtful, “she gives them jobs, she protects them.” There was admiration in her voice, as genuine as it can get. “She’s protecting this warden as well, for some reason, whoever he is.”

“At least we know it’s a he, that’s a start,” Varric noticed, hopeful. A handful of sunflower seeds is almost finished, only the smallest and the empty are on his palm.

“I wonder, why does she hold onto him, though? I can understand, it’s a warden, all right, a hero, but why _protect_ him? They’re more than capable of doing it on their own. The people who slay ancient gods don’t need protection from tradeswomen...” she tapped her index finger on the chin, a small dimple on it fitting perfectly with it, “what do they do when a Blight is over, anyway? Host tea parties?”

“Certainly not skulking around in big cities all alone,” the dwarf chuckled, crankily.

“Has he done something illegal, then, did he break the law in some way? No, that makes any sense,” Regan stopped herself, slapping her palms together, angry at her own incompetence. “I always thought they were above the law. Ugh… It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Even the wardens can’t get away with everything. Their crimes are forgiven when the Blight comes, but such drastic measures they are using then aren’t necessary when it’s over. I think they may be held accountable for things they do in peaceful times. There were instances of things not being very… vigilant, as they like to say, with their lovely mottos.”

It was if something illuminated Hawke’s face.

“It’s good, then, that we have someone who keeps a _very_ watchful eye on the crime in the city,” she said with a playful conspiratorial look, “because that might be what we just need.”

Varric shivered visibly at the thought of it, as if the sun suddenly died and all Thedas plunged into eternal darkness.

“You mean Aveline? The She-Ram? Are you sure that won’t put our efforts in the opposite direction?”

“She’s been following my every step, while I asked her not to, multiple times. She didn’t listen. Aveline _owes_ me, Varric. Besides, I think we’re friends. That’s what friends do. Or that’s what we’re supposed to think.”

“Are you sure Aveline views friendship the same way you do? I have an inkling she’s going to shove her own notion on this down your throat.”

“I say let her try. We shall see who shoves what down whose throat.”

 

It always felt weird, stepping onto the shining marble floors of the Viscount’s keep after treading hours and hours, ascending the stairwell leading away from dirty cobblestones of Lowtown. The soles of her boots were dirty, and Regan felt bad stepping on the clean burgundy carpets, although there was a phantom urge in her to use it to wipe her feet. She would do it if she knew for certain that the Viscount, the Seneschal or especially the Guard-Captain would scrape the carpets themselves, dirtying their little tender hands they used solely for writing. Otherwise, it wasn’t worth it to give more time-consuming work for the elven servants of the keep.

Together with Varric, they quickly passed through the long corridor filled with both nobles and commoners waiting for an audience with the Viscount. It wasn’t the first time when Regan found herself inside the palace, adorned with copper statues and stone carvings, its walls so tall that they only lit the chandeliers on special occasions. From both the outside and inside the keep seemed to an onlooker an imposing, menacing construction, with its sharp edges, metal spires and other structural elements clearly of Tevinter influence. It always amused her that Kirkwall architecture, for the most part, looked like bastions or ancient military constructions: at the first sight, it was almost impossible to spot the windows, which were plenty, but very carefully hidden in the intricate shapes and little alcoves of the marble walls. It was unlike any she has ever seen, and at first, it was a little bit frightening to step inside —the keep that was more akin to a carved block of concrete than anything else, and with its windows concealed, she expected it to be very dark inside. It turned out to be quite the opposite: the architect must have been a very talented man, and the keep was illuminated even brighter that some of the Fereldan cathedrals with windows as large as wall themselves.

Inside, it was bright and light of weight and very spacious, so that sometimes it felt as if she would pull her feet she could float. This heavenly, airy feeling evaporated as soon as they stepped into the left wing of the palace, where the guards congregated. Hard, dry wood replaced marble, the air was heavier. The work was brewing.

Aveline was overjoyed at the distraction. It wasn’t Hawke she was glad to see, or Varric, for that matter, but an opportunity to abandon her endless paperwork and petty errands, even for a short time. It was her ideals and loyalty to the law that led her to her job, but it was the bureaucracy that stilled her hand, and Aveline resented that. Still, it was not enough for her to leave everything behind; Aveline would take any position, even the most humiliating one, if it, in her opinion, was for the right cause.

“Hawke.” She inclined her head to the right, as was her custom when she greeted Regan. Not too little, not too much; just enough emotion to demonstrate in order not to offend. She looked busy and focused on something even when she was doing absolutely nothing. This was always Aveline’s way.

It often made Regan wonder how difficult it must have been for her husband. Sometimes, she felt like saying that Wesley got off easy, not having to put up with his wife, but his death already hit Aveline too hard, and it would be cruel of Hawke to say it. Varric would appreciate the joke, horrendous as it was, but she wouldn’t.

“Aveline.” Regan put up a polite smile, trying to observe her friend’s demeanor. This stout, ginger-haired shieldmaiden was always hard to read. Aveline always wore the same expression on her face: a grimace of poorly hidden frustration. On the rare occasions she actually smiled, it looked unnatural, as if she carved her lips with a knife.

 _Friend_ , she thought, _must be too strong a word._ There wasn’t any warmth between them, Aveline, without even realizing it, kept pushing everyone away. Whether it had something to do with accepting her widowhood and grieving or if it was something else entirely, it was hard to discern.

“It’s not just a friendly visit, is it?” the guardswoman asked.

“You see right through me, Aveline, as always.” Regan put her hand over her heart, a picture of true modesty. “Say, weren’t you posted in Lowtown recently.”

Aveline squinted her eyes in suspicion at the question that came out of the blue. “Yes, I was. Look, Hawke, if it’s about your uncle, I’m not bailing him out again. Period.”

“You wound me! One time was more than enough.”

She needed to be careful. If she gave Aveline too much information, it could end badly for their investigation. It was a dangerous game Regan was playing, ans she knew well that Aveline wasn’t keen on letting too much herself. The guardswoman was an avid player at this game, too.

“I wondered if you knew Lirene. What’s her problem?”

“Oh. _Her._ ” Aveline’s face twitched in irritation before returning to its normal mask-like state. “Did she file a report on you? Called the guards? I’ll see what can be done...”

“No, uh… No, she didn’t. Is she known for that?”

“Known?” She chuckled. “She is _notorious_ around the office. Files reports like it’s nothing. All that paper piling up wold be enough to keep the palace warm all winter! Let’s see... Harassment, threats… Most of those are false, they come out of nowhere. I don’t think she aims to disrupt our work, she’ just… She’s a very nervous woman. Insolent, too. Being assigned to the marketplace has become a punishment now, all thanks to her. Calls guards whenever she sees fit, and they are in no position to ignore any call. A couple of days ago, she requested we lend her two guardsmen for her protection. The gall of that woman!” Aveline said, with a faint trace of admiration in her voice. “But she’s not too bad. I’ve spoken to her, once. She respects the law greatly, believe it or not. Being impoverished never excuses any crime, and she doesn’t support those who have turned to it. Mostly, it’s minor offences. At least for some of them, a prison cell is better than living in the cloaca, scraping off bits.”

“Now you made me worried,” Regan said, “can you please check if she’s filed a report on me?”

“No problem.”

Aveline went up to the table which was piled with towers upon towers of paperwork and started her meticulous search, trying to clean up the mess at the same time.

“You be careful with that Bartrand,” she said, her nose buried in parchment, “he’s a son of a bitch.”

“Oh believe you me, I know,” Regan nodded, trying to read through the piece of paper lying on the top of the stack closest to her, “but I don’t really have a choice in all this.”

“Right. So. All is clear in recent reports. In _recent_.” She said, angrily eyeing Varric, who desperately avoided engaging in a conversation with her. “But I trust you enough not to double-check that.”

Regan knew that Aveline already knew there wasn’t anything on her, otherwise she would have bashed the door of the Hawke hovel long ago, prepared for a long and excruciatingly boring lecture on how Regan is supposed to be more orderly.

“Thank you,” she said to Aveline, thoughtful, “you’ve been a great help.”

The guardswoman nodded at Hawke’s words, as if doubting her own actions. “It’s nothing, really. These days, all I’m tasked with are fetch assignments or mock patrols. It’s like I’m told to sit on my hands, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“Hey,” Regan said softly, knowing that her concern is only likely to stir Aveline instead of calming her, “are you all right? If you ever need a shoulder, or someone to vent to, you know where to find me.”

“I’m not a child, Hawke.” She replied, slowly getting back to her normal demeanor, deprived of any humor or gaiety, deadly serious. “I don’t need to be coddled, especially if you only ask it to be nice to me.”

“Come one, it’s not like that, Aveline. I don’t think less of you because you feel upset. It isn’t wrong to be upset, you know. Stop torturing yourself because of the way you feel about things. It’s only human. It happens sometimes.”

“I don’t usually wallow in self-pity like that. And usually, there would have been something to busy myself with. Here, though… It’s a whole different story. I approach all tasks with efficiency, but it’s like they force me to sit idly when _things_ are happening at me. I’ve never been more humiliated in my entire life!”

“Knowing you, you aren’t going to let it keep going with impunity.”

Aveline went up to Hawke, looking anxious as if she was about to commit a crime. “It’s not just me anymore. There’s a small group of guards… We’re investigating something. I’m not telling you what. But I think at this point we’ve learned enough to make a difference.” When she said that, she looked happier than at any point in their conversation.

“Then, I can only wish you the best of luck. Because you’ll need it. And I know you’re not going to ask me for help in this.”

“You’re right… And no, it’s not like it’s too personal for me. It’s simply not a civilian matter, you see?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Now you’ve made me feel like an ass.”

She grinned. “That’s what they say, I bring out the best in people.”

“Okay. I’ll see if something turns up about this where we might need some… skill… and… discretion.” Each word in that sentence was squeezed out of Aveline’s tightly shut mouth, frozen in a strange scowl.

“Only if you feel it is necessary. I trust your gut.”

“Thank you, Hawke. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Regan smiled, turning sideways and scanning the study for signs of Varric, who, it seemed, disappeared. “I’ll leave you to your… work. Sorry I have to abandon you to your papers, but there’s something I really need to do.”

“Hawke,” Aveline halted her with a gesture. “I am going to regret telling you this about Lirene, aren’t I?”

“No… No, you’re not. Absolutely.”

 

She was anxious and impatient to leave the keep, and the dwarf noticed that. It wasn’t easy keeping up the pace with her, struggling with his legs behind Regan. When they finally made their way through the long alleyway, she turned on her heels swiftly, startling her friend, and said, allowing of no appeal:

“This warden is a mage.”

“A bold statement if I ever heard one.”

“It makes perfect sense!” Regan was herself so convinced, she didn’t feel anyone else needed convincing, and she was more agitated than when went to the Guard Office. “They come to laugh in her face, some thugs threaten her, and she’s on edge, she reports them all. I don’t judge. In her place, I would have probably done the same thing. But we came to simply ask, and got the same treatment, and it seemed to me she was ready to report this incident as well, but something stopped her. It was obvious that whoever this warden was, she was protecting him, and that extended to not mixing him in that guard business. Why? An honest person, and, especially, a warden, does not fear any attention from the guards, although, in Kirkwall’s case… Well, that is beside the point. It can only mean that, indeed, a crime has been perpetrated. But Lirene would not smear her reputation by associating with criminals, which she apparently never does, even if they are swayed to this path by the virtue of them being penniless refugees. From all this, I can only go to one conclusion,” Regan swung her arm upwards triumphantly, “that the crime he has committed is a crime only in Chantry’s book. It can only be the crime of being a mage.”

“I’m impressed,” Varric admitted, “sometimes you never cease to surprise me.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started, but all this resourcefulness would sound much better to me if this little fact we’ve just discovered actually put us closer to finding him.”

“Well, finding a mage is easier than a non-mage, that’s for sure.”

“We can’t rat him out to the templars. We’ll screw him over, he’s fucked for life, and that would neither be good or useful, never mind vile.”

“No one was going to suggest doing something like that, Hawke. Or do you take me for a heartless bastard? I’m actually wounded. You’re so cruel to me sometimes, I can’t even believe it,” the dwarf grabbed at his chest where the heart was mockingly, feigning grave offence.

“Well, you have no reason to harbor love for the wardens,” Regan mocked to suggest continuing this small foolish display, “and don’t tell me you’re about to appeal to your dwarven honor, because I don’t believe it one bit, hearing it from you.”

“No offence, but yes, I’m going to, because I, at least, have a more… lucrative interest in all this, disconnected from the worldly issues, something which you yourself can’t claim,” he smirked, “so, you don’t have any reason to bear any love for the wardens either.”

“The wardens weren’t there when Lothering burned, it’s true,” she admitted, “but considering there were only two of them at the time, I doubt they would have made any difference. I don’t hold it against them.”

“Got well off off that business, though.”

“A king and a Ferelden Warden-Commander,” she said thoughtfully, “gather that’s an adequate reward for stopping the end of the world. I think they deserved it, building their force from nothing. It takes a strong kind of person to accomplish something like that. I’m not sure if I would be able to put up with all that organizing… Come to think of it, I doubt I know even the half of it.”

“Leandra boasts this new Commander is a distant nephew of hers. When she’s brooding over the estate, I mean. Which is most of the time, but-”

“He _is_ a distant nephew of hers. But I’ve never met him or his mother, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“A shame. Could’ve greased some hands, got the title back… Imagine what a visit from such a distinguished figure to this shithole could do.”

“How low the mighty Amells have fallen. Associating with the commoners, criminals and their ilk. Hanging around the Carta,” she was using her fingers to count, “mercs, shills, corrupt magistrates, prostitutes...”

“Good that you mentioned the Carta, Hawke,” Varric scratched the back of his head, half-present in their conversation and led astray by his ever-rushing thought process, “because that just sprung a thought in my head. I’ve been hearing complaints from my contacts about some kind of a crazy man hanging around the refugees in the Undercity in a makeshift clinic, no less. And they’re furious about it because they can’t just shake him down, ‘cause he’s a mage. Could this be our guy?”

“You’ve been holding out on me for how long, exactly?” Regan’s phrasing wasn’t kind, but her smile was.

“I couldn’t piece all of this together on my own,” he said defensively as he saw her entwining her fingers together, for it was her turn to feign being mortally wounded, “I never even thought it was connected until you mentioned the Carta. But don’t you worry; I’m planning to make it up to you, with interest,” the dwarf winked. “I’ll poke around them, grease some hands and maybe we’ll come up with something.”

“I wouldn’t hold out hope, though,” she said, “it might turn out this healer of theirs is not our guy.”

“Well, it’s our only lead. I don’t think we really have much choice.”

 

If she knew what would follow, she'd tell herself later, she'd think twice, but that would be a massive lie.


End file.
